


Death Comes Twice

by CastielsCarma



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (Non Graphic), Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Anal, Blow Jobs, Child Loss, Depictions of near drowning, Dom/sub Undertones, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Hand Jobs, Infant Death, M/M, Overprotective Parents, Potatoes, Village life, Wing Kink, graphic medical procedure on a child (Eldon ), nature descriptions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-11-08 14:30:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 51,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20837045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CastielsCarma/pseuds/CastielsCarma
Summary: In a time when crop failures mean certain death and people believe angels are guiding their lives, Dean Winchester fears that his community is at the cusp of starvation. The villagers are suspicious of everything different and unknown.Since childhood Dean's been reigned in, controlled by other people's fears and perceptions of the world. Despite Dean skirting the edges of what is forbidden land and gleening a new truth, the villagers adamantly refuse to go beyond what they know. Their failure to trust in uncertainty and embrace the unknown will push Dean into action.Dean's secret bond with the Angel of Death, which has been growing for years, is his anchor. In a peaceful corner of centuries ago and worlds away, Dean desperately tries to save his village. His efforts to save the people he cares about will test his relationship with Castiel, the angel he loves as well as his village. It will change his perception of what he thinks he knows, it will change how he perceives the world. It will change everything.





	1. Devastation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to my first ever DCBB fic!
> 
> This entry kind of happened on accident when my dear [Emblue_Sparks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emblue_Sparks/works) convinced me to sign up for the Bang on a whim and here we are now, many months later. 
> 
> It's not been a straight journey. I started writing on something totally different and scraped that after a month, only to write the first few sentences on what would become this fic. This is my first ever multi-chapter fic, and my first Bang. Two birds with one stone.
> 
> Thank you to lovely [BeesAreAwesome](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeesAreAwesome/works)! She's created two amazing art pieces (and a gorgeous banner) to go with my fic <3 Go check out her art and show her some love and kudos! https://archiveofourown.org/works/21122384
> 
> Gift baskets, hugs and all around love to Emblue_Sparks and [BabysNotaProp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuzetteB/works) for being amazing betas! They were an invaluable help. With them I tossed my ideas back and forth, they encouraged me when I doubted if I could even reach 20k, at times they were my memory ;) but above all, they were constant support with all their love and kind encouraging words. Thank you for enduring my potato talk and awful vegetable puns for months. You may be amazing betas but even better friends. <3
> 
> Thank you to my friend [iCeDreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iCeDreams/works) for soothing my frayed soul regarding all the minor details that need to work when you're participating in a bang. <3
> 
> For my readers, old and new. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Lastly, thank you to the mods muse and diamond for arranging this Bang!
> 
> And before we dive in. Please read the tags.  
This work contains MCD. Bad things can happen to anyone at any time, especially the major ones. You have been warned!

His mother always said angels were watching over him. She just didn't know the angel's name was Death.

The first thing Dean truly remembered was not the soft touch of his mother's finger as she wiped away his tears, nor the smoothness of his brother Sammy's chunky baby thighs but the softness of the black leather purse. It was always with him, stuffed full so there wasn't even the clink and clank of coins rattling against each other. When Dean was older he used a needle to poke a tiny hole in the leather and pull a cord through, tying it to whatever belt he was carrying that day.

“Angels are watching over you, my sweet boy. But sometimes they need some aid.” She handed him a black leather purse, used but whole. “This purse, Dean, you must carry it with you at all times. Always. If it's full you can never be bought.”

His mother's eyes were serious and her voice trembled. Dean wanted to say that her grip on his hands was hurting. Instead, he nodded, scared by her demeanor and confused by her words. His mother was the one that baked batches of tiny cookies even though the flour was expensive. She was the one who found the most beautiful pieces of fabric to patch up his pants with when they ripped again and again as he explored the woods, creeks, and hills surrounding his village.

He had ever known her as patience and love and kindness until recently, so he promised her with all the sincerity a four-year-old could muster. “Yes, mom, I promise. I might drop it, cause my hands get sweaty. I'll put it in my pocket, I think my pocket is big enough.” From that day on Dean and his leather purse were inseparable.

His mom had suddenly smiled and graced him with a kiss, a hint of the mother that he'd known from before. “That's my Dean.”

“Can I see Sammy?” He tried to keep his voice even and not betray his longing but still, his face fell as his mother shook her head.

“Not today, sweetie. Maybe tomorrow, when your little brother is better. I don't want you to catch the flu.” She squeezed his hands. Dean didn't tell her that it was a promise she had broken yesterday and that he doubted it would come to pass tomorrow. He grabbed the purse, waved to his mom and closed the door as he went outside.

Dean was not good at keeping track of the days. To him the days consisted of play, helping his mother with the chores or being outside in the tall grass or sometimes resting in the shade when the heat was too much, watching his dad shape wood into forms he always found magical. Even simple things – like a chair, or a butter knife – to him was something to be in awe of. He peppered John with questions, who would smile and give him a carving knife. Dean would run to that old tree stump and sit with his legs crossed, lost for a while as he shaped a good stick into something else. A wooden spoon, a fork even though the pointy ends – he had heard John say prong one time but that sounded like frog – occasionally turned too thin and weak, or a play sword that could slay all the trolls and wolves stalking the nearby forests.

Dean was not good at keeping track of the days, but he knew that it had been forever since he'd seen Sammy.

There had been many days with Dean helping his mom but things were different now. They didn't walk their usual path to get fresh water from the stream, deep into the woods. Instead, his mom opted to do it much closer to the home where the water flowed more languid, and to Dean tasted like wet socks pulled out from a boot during winter. He would never say that to his mom though, in case she got sad.

And where the walks would usually give Dean ample time to run through the tall grass at the side of the well-trodden path – to search for new sticks to carve or pick up a dandelion to blow and watch as the wind caught hold of the seedlings – his mother now ushered him along quickly as she carried Sam on her back like a little sack of potatoes. At least Dean was close to his brother now. He didn't know much about being a baby and he hadn't been a big brother for long, but he knew he missed Sammy, even though Sammy mostly slept, ate and cooed. He pooped also, a lot. Dean tried to take a peek at his little brother, but his mother turned instead.

“We'll soon be there, Dean. You can carry this bucket if you want to help.” His mother smiled encouragingly and wiped her brow, at the same time clearing some strands that were plastered to her sweaty forehead.

Dean grabbed the bucket. “Why can't we go to the other place for water? I have strong legs.”

Mary's smile died down but she quickly ruffled Dean's hair. “I know you do, sweetie. But this is easier, and your brother is sleeping.”

As Mary turned and started walking, Dean frowned. Sammy was always sleeping, not like before. His hand went inside his pocket, touching the purse. It was heavy and slapped his thigh as he walked and it made one side of his pants lop-sided.

“Maybe Healer Anael can make him stay up. I have coins. We can give her some of my coins and she can give Sammy that yucky mash I had to eat when I was sick. Then he can be awake.”

Mary stared back at him, her eyes huge with horror. “You will keep that purse on you at all times, you hear me, Dean?! And your brother is fine! It's just the flu.”

Dean shrank back at the tone of his mother's voice. His heart hammered in his chest and he looked down at the dusty ground, blinking fast so the tears wouldn't spill down his cheeks. Nodding, he peered through his lashes at his mom. Her face had softened and she took a step towards him, hunching down so the hem of her skirt spread out around her like a green halo. As she opened her arms, Dean ran to her and was enveloped with warmth and her mouth on his hair, kissing him.

“I'm sorry, Dean. So sorry, sweetie. I didn't mean to shout at you.” She pulled back, and her golden hair was shining like a bright star in the sunlight, Dean thought. “The coins stay in the purse, yes?”

Dean nodded.

“Your brother is just taking a nap. But if you want to help, think of your brother's angels. They will watch over him too.” Mary turned and started walking again.

Not really knowing the names of Sammy's angels, Dean blinked before making a wish in a hushed voice. “I'm Dean, Sammy's brother... the older one, he is the baby. Watch over him, please. I have some angels too, mom says. You can borrow them if you need help. Thank you.” Happy with his wish, Dean grabbed the bucket in hand, making dust twirl around his feet as he ran to catch up with his mother.

Dean rested in the shade of a big tree, fiddling with a strand of grass as his mother filled the large buckets with water. She put the two buckets on each end of the water-stick as Dean had aptly named it and heaved it up on her shoulders. Dean smiled. Someday he would be as strong as her. He'd tried to lift the water-stick one time when he and Charlie were playing. They had managed to lift the stick a few inches off the ground before their muscles had protested from the strain and they'd been forced to drop it quickly.

“We are done here, let's head back home, Dean,” his mom shouted.

Dean ran to the edge of the river, dipped his hands in the cold water and washed his face before joining his mom. Their walk back was made in silence, with Dean running through the grass, pretending to be a giant that crushed trees. His mom was again keeping a brisk pace and halfway home Dean wished that he had taken a few sips of the water instead of just splashing his face with it. Sammy was still sleeping.

Slowly, Dean opened his eyes, waking to the sound of hushed voices. There was a chill in the air, despite the fire burning close by. The smell of smoke was a comfortable one and even though the small chimney drew away the worst of it, it still lingered in the house. Usually, Dean could hear what his parents were talking about. The walls were thin and Dean's hearing excellent, but today they spoke low and soft. Dean strained to hear something but the wind was blowing hard, causing more unrest outside than normal. Goose flesh erupted on Dean's skin as he put his feet on the floor. He grabbed the blanket, wrapping it around his shoulders and padded to the edge of the doorway on silent feet.

His mom and dad were mere shadows, lit up by the fire as they sat close to each other near the kitchen table. Dean could see the bigger shadow of his father embracing his mom. As he was about to approach his mom and dad he stopped mid-step.

“I don't know what else I can do. He nurses for a while but then just sleeps. I've tried dipping the milk in cloths, but he just suckles briefly before closing his eyes.”

“Is he still warm?” John mumbled.

“It comes and goes. I've tried Anael's poultice and soaked cloths in water to chill him.” His mom's voice broke and Dean could hear the shushing sounds as his dad tried to soothe her. “He's started to spit up the small amount of milk he swallows. Not even my arms bring him any comfort or soothing anymore; he cries and fiddles – “

Dean could hear a cry and he wanted to walk over there; hearing his parents in distress made him anxious and fearful. He was not sure what was happening but it was clear that his parents were upset while talking about Sammy.

Dean would go and check up on his brother instead.

The cradle was in the corner near his parent's bed on the other side of the room. Dean walked on his toes up to the cradle where he'd slept once and peered down at his baby brother. His eyes were shut as if he was sleeping. He _was_ sleeping. A sudden warmth filled Dean; he had missed his brother dearly and all he wanted was to pick him up but Sammy was still a baby and would probably fuss and cry. He had been near the other village children and knew babies.

Gently he pulled down the blanket to hug Sam. His tummy felt warm and hot like the fires when winter was upon them and his mom and dad burned wood all day and night to keep the warmth. Dean poked Sammy with his finger, but his brother didn't stir. Pulling his hand away, Dean grabbed Sam's hand instead. A small frown appeared on Dean's face as he realized that Sam's hand was cold, really cold. That was not good. Gently, Dean took both of Sammy's arms and tucked them close to his side before pulling the blanket over his little brother. Satisfied that Sam would now be warm, Dean bent down and kissed his forehead before sneaking back on silent feet to his own bed.

⸙

“Stay close to home. And I don't want you to go further than the Bradbury house.”

The sun had not yet reached its highest peak, leaving plenty of hours left until his mother would call for dinner. Dean would never dream of missing out on an opportunity for food and as he hugged his mother goodbye, he could see that she was preparing a piece of bacon. He couldn't stop the grin or the excited shout at the realization. They hadn't had bacon in weeks and although he knew how lucky they were to live close to good rivers with plenty of fish and even the occasional turtle, Dean couldn't help that he liked pig the best.

“Will dad be home for dinner?”

Dean was not sure what his dad's occupation was, only that he built things out of wood. He fixed fences for the Harvelle's, had repaired Rowena's hole in the front door. Dean still didn't know why someone would want to make a hole in a door but his dad had taken care of it and he had carved a butter knife for Dean. He had even taken care of old Alistair's wagon even though Dean didn't understand why. His dad didn't know that Dean sometimes was awake in his bed, listening to the low, hushed voices of his parents. And Dean had definitively heard his dad call Alistair a cheat and conniving man that sucked horse cock. Quickly, Dean had covered his mouth as not to let out a shocked gasp. He was only four but even he knew cock was a bad word. He had squeezed his eyes shut and thought about the angels looking over him. _It was my dad who said it, not me. _Confident that the thought would calm the angels, Dean pulled the itchy blanket close to his chin, turned to the side and stared into the wall until he fell asleep.

Mary shook her head as she smiled. “No, he has work to do. The crops are tended to but the Harvelle's need fixing their fencing for the pasture. John will be home late. Do not walk outside the perimeter, Dean, stay close to the Edge.”

Sighing, Dean had simply replied. “I won't cross the Edge. Bye mom, love you. Bye Sammy.” He took two steps toward the cradle before remembering to keep his distance. He glanced back at his mom. She wore that smile that Dean was not sure really was one. Not really. He grabbed his purse with the coins, before running out the door.

⸙

His house was on the edge of the village and Dean was pleased with that, because it was the right edge. He only had to walk a short distance before he could see the dusty path that took him down to the streams and rocky hills where he loved to climb and play. Soon he passed the fields of tall grass and took a detour straight through some berry bushes. Grabbing a handful of the sweet, yellow berries he trudged along, now seeing the huge rock he called the Mountain on his left side. Dean looked to the right, casting a glance at the Bradbury house, a short distance away. For a brief moment, he contemplated seeking Charlie out. She was one of Dean's friends, two years younger and usually accompanied him on his adventures but still having his mom's and dad's conversation in mind, he decided to go alone.

The trickling of water was soothing and as Dean followed the river deeper into the woods, that gentle flow grew wilder. The sun peered through the canopy of leaves, all in different shades of green, some like the color of dark moss, others more yellowish like grass that had been burned by the sun. Even emerald green leaves Dean imagined and it was just in his imagination. Dean had never seen an emerald, let alone a ruby or any other precious stone.

Once Vision Naomi had shown him a golden coin with a crown on one side and a man on the other. The man was a king, ruling over them, deciding what they were to do and when. Dean had found that odd; he'd never seen a king and as far as he knew the one that decided what he was to do and when was his mom and dad. Sometimes even they didn't decide, because they didn't know about everything Dean was up to. Vision Naomi would have had him pray to the angels if he asked any questions; he had already done it once. Sitting in his mother's lap, almost falling asleep as the whole village spoke in unison about blessings, the others, pure water and earth and something called soil and how it was theirs and the beyond was unworthy. Dean had asked why the beyond was unworthy and people had whispered about death and his mom's fair cheeks had turned red, like him asking questions had been an embarrassment.

The sound of the water was more thunderous now, the flow not a gentle trickle but quick and turbulent. Dean looked down at the Rock. Whereas Mountain was a good rock to climb on, the Rock was a flat stone in a narrow part of the river, jutting up just enough that you could use it as a means to jump across to the other side. The best rock formations were on that side if you just kept on walking for a while, with the crevice leading into a hollow area inside the rocks were Dean played, pretending he was a ghost. There was the smooth slab of stone that he used as a bed and bushes that teemed with berries. The river was more gentle there and deep enough that the stick Dean had poked into the water hadn't touched the bottom. Sometimes he'd climbed up on the hills rising up from the ground looking out over the forest. Looking north he saw the grass plains, with occasional patches of green here and there and more rocks. Unworthy land, yet no different from the land he stood on.

Dean hesitated. He'd already passed the Bradbury house and the Edge was not really a literal edge, more a quiet knowing that demanded its tribute in obedience. Dean tucked his hand in his pocket and took out the purse, still attached to his belt. He opened it and picked up a copper coin. It had lost its shine long ago, rubbing against other coins. It was quite ugly, Dean decided. On impulse, he flicked it into the river. For a short second, he panicked but the soft plop as it breached the water made him smile. As Dean weighed the purse in his hand it was still heavy. No one could tell a coin was gone, not even his mom. Dean took a few steps back and then leaped onto the stone before landing with ease on the other side.

Here the trees were less sparse so the sun heated up the rocks to a comfortable warmth. Dean saw huge fish scatter this way and that as he threw small pebbles at them. If he could catch one, his mom would be happy. Maybe he could give it to her as thanks for the upcoming bacon they would eat? Growing bored with scaring the fish, Dean climbed up on a small rock, eyeing the tree next to it. The branch looked sturdy enough. He took a few steps back, then went full speed ahead, screaming loudly as he flew through the air, his hands already reaching for the branch. His heart sang with satisfaction as his fingers wrapped around the branch, holding on as muscles strained to ease his momentum. He heaved his legs up, wrapping them around the branch and on an exhale let himself fall backward, arms dangling down.

The world upside down was a peculiar one, but fun nonetheless. Dean swayed back and forth a couple of times before grabbing the branch again to pull himself up. As he jumped down on the ground he thought of Charlie. Next time he'd knock on her door. He missed her company and she always found the best rocks. Patting his pockets he felt a surge of panic when he noticed that they were empty. Looking left and right he sighed in relief when he found the purse in the grass. A few coins had spilled out in the grass and when Dean bent down to pick them up a sudden chill took hold of him. It was as if someone had poured ice water between his shoulder blades. Involuntarily, Dean shivered several times, his whole body tensing as goose flesh bloomed on his arms and legs.

As he straightened himself he noticed something in the corner of his eye. Turning, he saw a man standing next to him, in a dark hooded cloak that reminded him of Vision Naomi, except that she was shorter and always wore her hood down, even in the depths of winter.

“Hello, Dean.” The man spoke low, his voice dark and strange.

Dean blinked. His mother and father wouldn't want him to talk to strangers but this man knew his name. Maybe he was one of his parent's friends. “Hi. Who are you?”

The man chuckled. “You are already asking the important questions, but it should be directed at yourself.” He bent down and retrieved Dean's leather purse, his fingers carefully picking up the rest of the dropped coins. Putting them back in the purse he pulled a cord tightly and held out his hand. “I'm Castiel.”

“That's a funny name.” Dean looked at the man and when Castiel didn't make a move or a hint to continue, he grabbed the purse and promptly stuffed it back in his pocket.

Castiel pulled back his hood and smiled.

Dean stared at Castiel, or rather at his eyes. He'd met everyone in his village and even some from other towns when they came to visit and he had never seen eyes as blue as Castiel's. The closest that came to mind was Illium, but he was a cat. Castiel's black unruly hair was a shade lighter than his flowing cloak, and that was all Dean could notice, as if the darkness surrounding him blurred out everything else.

“That might be but it's my name and there are far stranger names out in the world.” As if that settled the matter, Castiel continued. “You are far from home, Dean.”

“Not that far, just across the river and then down the path where you walk by the Mountain and you have to pass Charlie's house too. And the berry bushes.”

Castiel nodded, listening intently. “I assume if you are a boy with speed in your legs, that distance would seem short.”

“Not only boys. My friend Charlie is really fast, especially when we're running from Metatron. He has pies.”

The corner of Castiel's mouth turned upwards. “And why would you need to run, little one?”

Dean narrowed his eyes. Usually, when adults called him little it was accompanied by hard pinches to his cheeks or violent pats on his head. Sammy only ever got kisses and cuddly hugs. Relieved when it seemed Castiel was happy to stand where he was Dean shrugged, poking his booted toe in the earth. “His pies are always on the window sill and no matter how many times dad makes him a new rolling pin, it always breaks a few months later. Dad has even said that Metatron owes him pies...”

There was humor in Castiel's voice when he spoke. “That sounds reasonable, Dean. So did your father get the pies?”

Dean didn't know why he didn't hesitate or lie but for some reason he wanted Castiel to think highly of him. And his mother had said that the highest thing you could do was not to lie. And do your chores and take care of Baby even though she was a big cow, and be kind to your baby brother although he'd just puked all over you.

“No, he didn't. We were hungry and both me and Charlie really like cherry pie _and_ bacon.”

Castiel laughed out loud. “I'm certain Metatron deserved it.”

Dean nodded.“He has so many of them, and he wants twenty cents for one pie! That is a lot of coins... I think.” All the talk about pies It was my dad who said it, not me. and bacon made Dean realize that he'd been gone long enough. “I have to go home, my mom is waiting.”

Suddenly Castiel turned somber, his blue eyes narrowing in on Dean and he felt a chill go through him again. “I think that is for the best, Dean.” His voice was soft and his words spoken carefully as he kneeled down and extended his closed fist towards him. “You dropped something.” Slowly, Castiel opened his palm.

It was the coin Dean had tossed in the river. He grabbed it, a question on his lips when Castiel placed a finger on his mouth.

”Shh. Now run.”

Dean opened his leather purse to put the coin back in. “Thank you Cas- “ As he turned back around, Castiel was gone.

When Dean arrived home, somewhat breathless after running, he was greeted by a wailing sound. As he burst through the doors, he found his mother kneeling on the floor with a lifeless Sam in her arms.


	2. Revelation

Summers and winters came and went without Dean taking much notice. He was caught up in the here and now of child's play, exploring the fields with his mother and borrowing his father's tools. But his days of childhood were not all filled with restless legs, a curious heart, and an open mind. A shadow lingered throughout it all. For as long as Dean could remember there had been this part within him wound uptight, vibrating with tension. 

Kneeling down on the floor with his head bowed down, he had a lot of time to think. Vision Naomi was leading them in prayer again, giving thanks to the angels for clean water, good soil and the refuge their village and Kingdom provided. 

Dean looked to his left side. His father was still towering over him but Dean was sprouting and soon he'd be all grown up and then he could go on adventures and see more than the same river and forests and paths he'd laid eyes on since childhood. On his right side, his mother had her eyes closed but Dean could see her lips moving in silent prayer. He looked up at the huge wooden carving above Naomi, two large angel wings that stretched out behind her, before averting his eyes. While others had expressed their admiration for the wings, Dean found them to be just another sculpture, and he was more concerned about the condition of the skin on his knees in the present than some carved piece of wood that was ancient.

They all acted like everything was fine. It wasn't. 

He knew Charlie was somewhere behind him in the crowd, thinking more about climbing trees or tying the nets in a way she had figured out herself that made them last longer. Her dad was nice but stubborn, thanks to his daily shot of ale, she had quipped. Charlie's dad's stubbornness had nothing on the patriarch of the Winchesters' though, Dean thought bitterly. Sighing, he adjusted his knees again. The floor in the house of prayer had a small wool rug covering the stones, but it was not thick enough in Dean's opinion to even begin to make a difference. He'd rather sit on the benches.

“ – and let us thank the angels for their guidance and wisdom that they have ordained unto us and for their bountiful gift that is clean. Thank you for blessing us with clean life and clear eyes.”

The worshipers mumbled clear eyes as Naomi walked among them whispering something, probably a blessing. When she passed Dean, she laid a hand on him, mumbling some more. 

The worship finally over, Dean got up on stiff knees. The crowd was slowly making their way towards the doors, eager to move and Dean followed them as quickly as he could. Charlie's red hair stood out as a flame as she pushed past the worshipers and Dean was grateful for that. He didn't have much time. 

Rounding the corner of the building, Charlie was sitting down, her back leaning against the wall, her eyes half-closed against the sunlight. She was serene, as she hadn't sprinted just seconds ago.

“Charlie.” Dean couldn't help the smile that erupted on his face. She was one of the few people that he liked to be around. In her presence he could forget about everything and even though she didn't quite understand all of him, she was accepting and that was all he wanted.

“Clear eyes,” she greeted before breaking out in laughter. 

Dean sat down next to her, their legs touching. “Her eyes are as clear as old lady Pamela's. I used to think the angels had cursed Pamela when I was a child. She was creepy, well her eyes anyway. Milky and gross.” He scratched at a stubborn bite on his leg. “Naomi giving the same old speech as before. Clear eyes.” Dean scoffed. “I bet Naomi couldn't see the river in front of her even if she'd fallen in. Probably say it was angel piss rather than confess it was actual water.”

Charlie let out a scandalized sound but nodded enthusiastically. “Not so loud, Dean! People will hear you.” She paused slightly before continuing. “So, are we still going to the Edge?”

Dean grimaced. “I wish you'd stop calling it that. It's not really an edge. It's just the same... but not.” He turned, trying to see his father and mother in the crowd. “But of course we are going. My mom will be down in the meadows picking her herbs and dad will come home as usual and leave like he always does. Potato soup again.”

Charlie grabbed his hand. “I miss you.” 

“I miss you too.”

“Dean! Dean, come over here.” His dad's voice was loud and clear over the soft murmur of people outside the house of prayer.

Reluctantly letting go of Charlie, Dean rounded the corner only to stare straight at the displeased face of his father. He balled his fists, trying to relax and let the inevitable scolding wash over him. “I've told you to stay close, how many times now?”

“I was close by. Over there,” Dean pointed vaguely in a random direction. He tried to keep his voice even when all he wanted to do was to shout at his dad or run away. It was hard to decide in those moments which one he preferred and it always ended with the third option of doing nothing.

His dad grabbed him by the arm and pulled him up. “Come, you have your mother worried. You are young and you don't know half of the dangers out there. Did you know that Benny injured his leg? He's having to walk with a swollen knee for days now, and it was pure luck Anael had enough white willow bark.” Satisfied that Dean followed along he spoke more to himself than anyone else. “It seems wolfsbane has taken over the meadows this summer...”

Dean glanced back, trying to find Charlie. She was poking her head around the corner, worry on her face, but it relaxed as Dean gave a thumbs up. His mother was waiting ahead, talking to Ms. Missouri and some other ladies he didn't recognize. When his mother's eyes locked onto him, she quickly said her goodbyes and stalked over, relief warring with anger on her face.

“I found him near the house of prayer. At least he hadn't wandered off. You heard about Benny? That could have been him.”

His mom broke eye contact, her mouth set. “Yes, that boy has always been trouble. Running around everywhere with no regards to rules, or common sense.” Her face softened somewhat. Probably because Dean was looking at the ground. He'd found that was a very good way to ease his mother's worry.

“You do know the rules though, Dean?” His dad had calmed, but he stared intently at Dean. He didn't have to glance up at his dad to know this; it was a physical presence, weighing heavily on him. His mom walked behind him, placing a hand on his shoulder, caressing the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Yes, dad.” Dean's answer was a whisper and he hated it.

His mom sighed and walked around to face him. She kneeled down next to him as she grabbed his hand, her thumb stroking idly. “This is for your own good, to keep you safe. Out there, disease is rampant, and people plunder, people die. You have plenty of land to explore here, woods to hide in, rivers to jump in. You do know what the Vision says? Clean life and clear eyes. We are blessed to know that our land is good and safe. That is the wisdom granted to us by the angels.”

Dean wanted to roll his eyes, but he nodded instead. His mom patted him on the cheek and got up.

The words just rolled off his tongue. “How do you know? There is more than just our land.” He winced as soon as he realized what he had said.

_“Dean.”_ His father's voice cracked like a whip. “I will not have you question your mother, me or the Vision. One more word from you and you will not be allowed to leave the house until I say so.”

Anger and shame warped together coloring his cheeks red but Dean held his tongue. He glanced at his mother. She looked at John as if she wanted to say something, then she turned her attention to Dean, or rather to his pants. Dean could feel the coins heavy in his pocket like they were on fire. 

He already knew the words from her lips.

They were spoken softly, like a prayer, a deep urging born from sorrow and tempered in fear, more than a command. “Listen to your father, Dean.”

Dean felt a heavy lump in his throat and was surprised he could still form the words. “Yes, mom.”

Their walk back home was one of uneasy silence.

⸙  


The potato soup was like any other potato soup Dean had eaten, maybe even slightly worse than normal. The small leaves of thyme tasted odd, and for once he was sure they did more to spoil the soup than enhance the flavor. He ate it anyway until his spoon touched the bottom. It was a bowl his dad had carved, one of the little things he'd managed to do while not being busy with the villagers' more pressing needs. Fences that needed mending, a stable that needed to be expanded or new planks for flooring.

His mom and dad hadn't said anything on the way back from the house of prayer and mealtime hadn't been an improvement. He could feel their disappointment like a heavy cloak around him, and again anger flared inside him. It was not his fault that they were afraid. He was certain it was fear. Everyone else, even his friends – well friend, Charlie – could go wherever they wanted. But everyone else's urges to go whatever they wanted seldom took them farther than the neighboring village which was a quick walk, less than an hour away, even faster on horseback. And those that did seek adventure went south, to the capital and that land was also deemed clean.

He touched his black purse. It was still with him, but he was not sure why anymore. He loved his mom and dad. He had loved Sammy. _ If it's full you can never be bought._ He still didn't know the intent or meaning behind those words. He'd asked, or tried to ask some years earlier and his mom had just shaken her head and said please, her voice quivering in such a way that Dean hadn't dared ask since. And if his dad found out that his questions had made his mother sad or upset...

“You're heading out now?” His mother's voice brought him back from his musings. His dad was already up, bowl in hand and dabbing a piece of bread to soak up the last remnants of soup. 

“Yes, you know Metatron... he is a baker.

Metatron was the oddest baker he had known but he did make delicious pies. Dean followed his dad outside. He'd already made up his mind and he was not going to disappoint Charlie.

“Dad?” He waited until his dad turned to face him, a black eyebrow arching in question.

“I was wondering if I can go with mom today, help her with the herbs?” He spoke with the softest voice he could, the one that compelled his dad to give him one more slice of bacon, or that made him relent and say yes to a quick soak in the river on a really hot summer day.

His dad hesitated, looking Dean up and down. “I guess. By next summer you'll be too old to hang in your mother's skirt so...”

“Thank you. I can help you with the planks tomorrow, I promise.” Dean smiled his best smile.

“Mm...” His dad turned around, already dismissing him and Dean ran back inside.

His mom usually collected herbs and flowers from all around; the meadow, near the river banks, and special patches in the forests. While she sold most of the herbs to Anael or traded them with her neighbors; she did keep some for the household, mostly used for tea or to ward of evil spirits. She didn't question the company of her son, just grabbed her basket and together they walked to the meadow. 

Dean looked on in silence for a while as his mother picked some herbs, her hands wrapped up in cloth. It took longer than usual because his dad had been right; wolfsbane was growing rampant this year. His mom used a dull knife to flatten the wolfsbane, careful not to touch them and then slowly dug out the rue, also called herb of grace.

“I hate that herb,” Dean said. “Let me help you with the knife.”

His mother kept on digging, a smile on her face. “That might be, Dean but other creatures hate it too.”

Dean took the knife and flattened the wolfsbane away from his mother's hands as she carefully uprooted the rue. “It stinks.”

His mother laughed, and it was a sound Dean heard all too seldom, no matter if she was around dad or not. “It is true it doesn't have the most pleasant scent, but it keeps the pests and fleas away.” After she had picked a handful of the rue herb and put them in the basket, she unwrapped the cloth from her hands, flexing her fingers.

They picked herbs like this for a while. Dean found a raspberry bush, taking a short break to munch on some berries. He gazed over the patch of the meadow they were in now and to his eye, it was drowning in wolfsbane. “Mom...”

“Yes, my love?”

“There is a lot of wolfsbane this year.”

His mother stopped her gathering and looked at Dean, a curious expression on her face, then she looked over the same space where Dean's gaze lingered. “Yes, you are right about that... But that is nature. Sometimes there are more plants and sometimes there is less. I'm sure by next year the wolfsbane will have receded back to normal.”

Dean didn't remind her that she'd said that last year too.

After what Dean deemed was enough time he approached his mom. “I'm not ungrateful... at all. I just... Can I go with dad?”

Dean's mother got up from her bent position, arching her back and stretching her arms up towards the sky to ease some of the pain of the prolonged posture she'd been in. He could see how she was hesitating, looking back at the road.

“I'll run, it will take no time.” There was still silence and just when Dean internally cursed his luck and his missed opportunity with Charlie she nodded.

“You have your purse?”

He always had the purse on him. “Yes, mother.”

“Be back before dinner, you know your dad sometimes misses it but I want you home before nightfall.”

Dean grinned. “I'll be earlier than before dinner.” He kissed his mom on the cheek and then did as he promised and ran until he was sure his mother couldn't see him.

⸙  


The Rock was not really necessary as a stepping stone to jump over the narrow junction of the river anymore but it was a tradition and as Dean ran, air burning in his lungs, he waved his hands to get Charlie's attention when he saw her.

Charlie waved back, a huge grin on her face. They hugged, Dean, squeezing her tightly. “So how much time do we have?” 

Dean rubbed the back of his neck, trying to calm his racing pulse. “Not sure, but it is enough. Come on!” 

Dean took a few steps back, gaining momentum and then he was over on the other side of the river. He looked back at Charlie, who hesitated shortly before shaking her head and taking the leap. She landed on the other side with a soft thud. 

“I'm still feeling very clean, Dean.”

Rolling his eyes, Dean urged her along. “Well, if you feel dirty, the water will be calmer soon. You can take a bath if you want.”

The rocks and crevices of his childhood had shrunk and what was high mountains looked more humble, but they still made an excellent vantage point. The calm pooling of water was the same, albeit smaller in size, either that or Dean had grown. He was tempted to take a plunge into the cool water just to experience the euphoric feeling of when he was four, before Sammy, before the fear and restrictions and rules. Where most children received more freedom the older they had gotten, for Dean, the opposite was true.

Charlie ran to the water and dipped her feet in, laughing. “Come on, Dean, I know your feet are stinky.”

Dean snorted out loud but came to her side. “You just made it more difficult to walk. Pray to the angels they don't give you blisters the size of pumpkins. Let's go.” He waited for his friend as she shook her feet in a feeble attempt to dry them. When that didn't work she started dragging the side of her feet along the grass.

“Charlie, you are only making it worse.”

“I'm not!”

When Charlie was satisfied with her work she raised one foot in the air. “See, it's like new.”

Dean looked at the shoe, wet, dirty and caked with mud. “If that is like new, I feel sorry for you.” Suddenly, a more somber thought struck him. “Um, I hope you won't get in trouble for this. They were nice shoes.”

“Don't worry about it, it'll dry. And if mom and dad ask questions, I'll just say I tripped and dipped my feet in the water. Mumble something about angels watching over me and saving the leather. That will convince them.”

“If my parents were that easy.” They both looked at each other until Dean spoke again. “Enough of this, follow me.”

Dean led them deeper into the woods and away from the river. Although the green canopy on the trees was the same, the low ground vegetation changed. Where tall, reed-like grass was abundant before, it gave way to clusters of bushes – some green and leafy – others with berries the color of the sun or the shade of blood. Dean set his eyes on some bushes growing near a fallen tree trunk and picked a handful.

He stretched out his hands. “Eat the ones that are redder, they taste sweeter.”

Charlie bit her lip, then picked one up, chewing fast and swallowing. 

“If they are poisonous, I don't think you chewing faster will help you.”

Charlie rubbed her hands on her skirt but stopped at Dean's remark. “Are they... poisonous?”

“No. You think I'd poison you, silly? Besides, if I wanted to do that, I'd just rub wolfsbane all over your face while you were sleeping or give you a glass of warm milk, where seconds before I'd dipped some wolf's bane in it.” Dean wiggled his finger as his voice turned lower, and he laughed in what he hoped was a sinister way.

Charlie stalked up to him and punched him hard in the shoulder before grabbing some more berries. She shoved them in her mouth, chewing with an open mouth.

“Eww, you're gross.”

“Not more gross than you, with your fantasies about murder.”

“It's not murder if you just think about it. Clean life, Charlie. You most definitely don't look clean right now.” Dean poked her in the chest, where her tunic had a purple stain. 

“My mom will kill me. But not really. I do the washing at home anyway. Do you know that if you take the wash nuts and soak them for a while before scrubbing like your hands are gonna fall off, you can remove almost any kind of stains? Well, except blood.”

“I didn't know that.”

“Neither did mom, that's why I'm stuck with washing. Not that I complain. She can peel potatoes any day of the week for all I care.”

Dean's face lit up. “Speaking of potatoes! Come, I want to show you something else. It's just a short walk from here.”

As they approached the spot Dean became more enthusiastic. Charlie looked around at the tall oak trees – the green leaves shining in the sun like emerald stars – and the berry bushes and then back at Dean who was still grinning. The bushes had thick, almost leathery leaves and Charlie went to touch them but hesitated.

“Again, not poisonous. I don't know if I should be worried about you thinking I'd sneak you poison at every turn.”

Charlie laughed. “I'm sorry, Dean. I do trust you, it's just... you remember that time when we were gonna pick a bouquet for our moms and you showed me a nice green plant and I picked it up and it was nettles?”

“ I remember... I also remember I was five. I didn't know that it burned like crazy. But yeah, I remember. All I wanted was to dip my hands in water and I cried and cried all the way back home. I couldn't leave the house for a week after that.”

Charlie's smile died down. “Sorry, I didn't mean to – “

“It's fine. Anyway, look closer.” Charlie narrowed her eyes and moved some leaves away when the thick leathery crown revealed softer, more smooth green leaves poking through. 

“Is that –?” She grabbed on to the leaves and stalk and pulled. The earth finally gave way, and Charlie fell backward on the ground, dirt cakes flying and covering her reddish hair with black spots. 

Dean was there in a second and helped her get most of the dirt out of her hair. “We don't need to leaf any clues behind.”

Charlie rolled her eyes at Dean's attempt at humor but then her sight landed on the plants in her hand. “Dean! This is... this is potatoes!” A cluster of potatoes, a purple almost as dark as black, small and round like pieces of charcoal dangled in her grip. Why – Why haven't you – “

Dean sighed. “Brought home a bag of potatoes? You don't think mom and dad would hammer me with questions about these weird-looking potatoes and where I got them? And even if I did tell them, they'd hardly jump up and down with joy and toss them in the nearest pot of boiling water. Not clean and all that...” Dean grabbed a potato and rubbed some dirt off it. “Looks good though. I wonder if the potato soup would turn black or purple?”

Settling down with her legs crossed, Charlie fiddled with the potatoes, then her hands went to her red hair, playing absentmindedly. She bit her lip, her face scrunched up in thought. After a moment of comfortable silence, she spoke up. “Dean, do you think – I mean we have to tell Vision Naomi –“

Dean scoffed. “She is old, Charlie. Like ancient. I bet she is as old as an angel or old Bobby. He was old even when dad was young, at least that's what dad says. Besides, you think she would listen? No one dares walk outside their comfort, outside what is known or whatever she preaches. I'd be grounded for months.” He looked down and his cheeks burned because deep down that was the true reason he hadn't told anyone. Just the thought of being locked away, more than he was confined at the moment, hurt.

“I guess you are right. It's just that this is food. The whole village could benefit from this.”

Clearing his throat, Dean pulled at Charlie's arm. “We have to head back, otherwise my dad will get suspicious.”

On the way back, Dean decided to take a shortcut just to be on the safe side. It was that lesser familiarity with the landscape around him that made him overlook or rather, not recognize the signs. The plants and trees were mostly the same, although big dark reeds popped up here and there and Dean was suddenly aware that that ground seemed squishy. He slowed down. With each step, his feet sank down somewhat, water pooling around him. He called out in warning. “Char –“

“Dean!” Her scream was shrill and sent chills down his spine.

As he turned, Charlie was ankle-deep in brown sludge, trying desperately to get free. Instantly fear thrummed through him. He could see Charlie moving her body around, trying to move forward but each desperate movement only made the mud grab her tighter, threatening to pull her down faster.

“Charlie, try to be still!” Dean looked around for anything to grab hold of but as his eyes landed on the small shrubs and plants he knew it wouldn't be enough. Tentatively, he took a step forward and although the ground was not solid, it held his weight. Leaning forward, he tried to reach for Charlie.

“Dean, please.” Charlie was on the verge of tears and Dean felt sick. He knew how dangerous these kinds of bogs could be. Farmer Mill's cow had escaped her enclosure two years prior and gotten herself stuck in mud after a particularly heavy storm. She'd hadn't made it.

“I'll be right back, please hold on Charlie.” Dean turned around and ran to the closest tree, desperately trying to find a sturdy stick, anything that could help but twigs were all that greeted him. After running to the fourth tree luck was with him. A branch, almost as tall as himself was on the ground, some moss covering parts of it. Dean grabbed hold of the branch and pulled until it was free. Sweat made his tunic stick to his back as he wrapped his hands tightly around the branch and half ran, half dragged it over to Charlie.

When he finally arrived, his hands were pounding painfully in rhythm with an all-encompassing throb in his head. The stick had dug into his hands uncomfortably and iron was a heavy taste in his mouth. Dean was just on the edge of the boggiest part, so close to Charlie.

She had calmed down somewhat but he could see that she was shaking.

“Throw it, I can catch it.” Charlie stretched her arms forward, almost losing balance.

“Wait, wait, Charlie, please. I'll throw it.”

He hoped that she wouldn't fall face forward into the dirty gunk. Dean struggled with the branch until he had a good grip, then exhaled as he brought the branch behind him, creating momentum. He used every ounce of strength he possessed and hurled it towards Charlie, still gripping the end tightly. It landed just in front of her. 

Charlie's hair was dirty and messy, fingers caked with mud but she managed to take a hold on the end of the branch. 

“I got it, I got you, Charlie.” Dean was tired and scared so Charlie would be feeling everything twice as much as he did, but adrenaline was coursing through him, urging him to keep going. He dug in his shoes as much as he could and pulled until it felt like his arms would be ripped from their sockets. Charlie tried heaving herself up and hope fluttered in his chest when he noticed that she had moved some inches up and away from the pit. Dean used that momentum to pull her up some more, but then he stopped, head bowed down. His lungs were burning, his arms were on fire, and he felt tears prickle in his eyes. He couldn't fail, he didn't allow himself that option.

He continued to pull but every time Charlie gained some inches forward, she was being dragged back down by her own movements. Dean didn't know how much longer he could keep going. 

“Charlie, when I pull now, you try your hardest. Keep fighting, you are doing so good! Just pull the hardest you can.” Charlie wasn't responding but she nodded his way, and Dean exhaled, breathing in new air that more and more left him in a tired state than brought rejuvenation to weary muscles.

Squeezing the branch hard, Dean took a step back as he dug his feet in. His thighs were objecting, almost burning with effort but Dean ignored it, dismissed his pounding headache and the cutting pain in his palms. He kept hauling but it felt like he was trying to convince a mountain to move. 

He was on the verge of giving up, shame and fear making tears spill forth and bile threatening to rise up in his throat. Every part of him was in pain or cramped tension. Dean looked at Charlie and his heart constricted. Looking down on the ground he cursed. One more pull, he could do it. One more tug. In that instant, Dean could feel a cool breeze sweep over him. He shivered as icy cold ran down his back and looking up in confusion, his gaze fixated on a man standing in front of him. 

Dressed in a black robe just like last time, the man's piercing blue eyes landed on him. Huge black wings rose up behind and above him. The sunlight played gently in those ebony wings, and the darkness was only interrupted by the occasional flicker of blue as it was reflected in the sun. 

Dean's voice was a choked whisper. “Cas?”

Castiel didn't reply, but a small smile played on his lips and without a word he arched his wings back even more until they practically engulfed him. If Dean wasn't consumed with admiring the pure beauty on display before him, he would have been terrified. Cas arched an eyebrow as in acknowledgment and then gave a subtle nod. 

Dean barely had time to dig in his feet and tug at the branch before Castiel flapped his wings forward, creating a surge of air. Both he and Charlie were pushed by the wind and Dean could have sworn he heard the faint whisper of his name._Dean_. They were thrust away violently from the muddy trap and landed with a grunt on the hard ground several feet away from the treacherous mud pit.

Dean lay there just breathing for a moment before turning his head. Charlie was next to him, looking like a kitten that had been tousled by a mudslide, but she was alive, breathing and alright. Realizing that he still had his fingers around the wood, Dean flexed his fingers loose from the branch, an almost painful endeavor from holding tight for so long. He grimaced as the blood slowly started flowing back to numb parts.

Silently, Dean's hand reached over, touching coarse grass and a few pebbles until he found Charlie's warm, soft hand. He grabbed hold and felt her fingers wrap around his own hand, gripping tightly almost to the point of pain. Dean didn't care. They lay there, holding hands for a long time. The journey home and the inevitable anger and disappointment that he would face, at the moment, Dean couldn't even muster up the energy to care. 

And mingled throughout all that, in the back of Dean's mind, was fear and awe. Castiel was an angel.


	3. Temptation

Being twenty-one and unmarried was unheard of in the village and Dean had gotten used to the whispers behind his back from the villagers and the disapproving stares from his father. It was a look Dean knew; he was on the receiving end of one at the moment as he scooped up a second ladle of barley porridge. Fishing up a carrot with his spoon, he chewed in silence. 

“Heading out to the Kline's. Barrels that need mending. Can't have the rats finding those cured meats. Then I need to continue on that table I've been working on.” His father spoke casually but Dean knew it was a veiled admonishment as surely as the wild river flowed back into the deep ocean.

Dean took another spoonful in his mouth, watching his mother from the corner of his eye. She had her mouth set like she wanted to say something but she kept her silence, opting to push the chair away and clear her plate from the table.

“Alright.” Dean figured that would be enough to, if not appease his father, then at least stop him from cajoling him any further. It took about three seconds before John dropped all pretense and spoke, scorn mingled with frustration in his voice.

“I've seen your work, Dean. Fancy carved hilts, more suitable on a knight's knife than for simple folk like us. Or that carved angel you gave to Charlie Bradbury. If you're not gonna marry that girl, stop wasting wood and good metal on her. Better use your talent where it belongs. Helping our people and the village. Your eyes are muddled and angels help me, you are lost.”

“Is that so? That I'm lost and wayward, fallen like the Morning Star? Is that what Naomi says these days? Is she also claiming that my touch corrupts like Lucifer's touch corrupted the land?”

“It's Vision Naomi to you.”

Dean had almost finished his second helping, eating hurriedly and trying to ignore the other man sitting on the opposite side of the table. It was a lost cause. Either he engaged and incurred the wrath of his father or he ignored him which would lead to the same end result: his father spitting out some curses and storming off in anger.

“I don't see what it is that Naomi heals with her prayers. And when was it she received a vision that actually helped us? Anael at least heals random people plagued with rashes, maybe a child with fever if she is lucky, using her poultice and herbs. Mom uses the same herbs. And even Anael's healing abilities did little good two decades ago. Naomi seems more interested in receiving tithe and praise than preaching and giving guidance these days.” The thought of his brother always made his heart clench in ache and longing. Dean's life would have been different, better, with Sam in it. His death had ripped apart not only the happiness that he was sure Mary and John had felt in each other's presence in the past but also shredded Dean's freedom to pieces. 

John rose from the table, eyebrows drawn down and anger shining in his eyes.

The image of his father suddenly filled Dean with pity. There were gray specks dusted throughout his beard, deep wrinkles around his eyes and forehead. He was still strong but suddenly he looked old. Old and tired.

“You are lost. Wandering around where you shouldn't go, nursing your death wish like a babe close to your chest. Dreams will not sustain this family! You even spurn the notion of starting your own family. You talk about age? You'll soon be too old to – “

“You talk about this family... Will a new fence keep us from starving?” Dean tried to keep his voice level but it came out coated in anger, sharpened by impatience and years of suppressing his feelings. “Will Alistair's new chest fill our bellies and make the rivers clean? Clear eyes, what a fucking joke! When was the last time any of you really went out and looked at the world? When was the last time you went out in the fields with mom and saw what was really out there?”

As if the sound of her name called her forth, Mary was there, tugging Dean gently on the arm but he pulled away. He was not a small child anymore to be soothed and lulled away from his father's wrath and neither was he going to apologize or turn a blind eye anymore. 

His father stood rooted, exhaling furious anger and inhaling disappointment until his face was set in those bitter lines and wrinkles Dean knew all too well. If John's face was the story of his life, the pages were filled mostly with tragedy and self-righteous anger. Without another word, John turned and left.

The loud thud as he slammed the door shut echoed in the preceding, angry silence.

⸙

The walk to the fields was usually done in silence and today Dean was grateful for that. The only sounds came from the soft thread of their shoes on the well-traveled path, the occasional birds, and the clinks of his coins clattering together in his purse. Its weight as it hung by the belt was a familiar one, something that he both loved and hated. He knew his mother believed the full purse would keep Death at bay – leaving no room for the angel to put his own coins in and claim his soul – but that was a superstitious notion that Dean had stopped believing in a long time ago. Yet, he still kept the purse, of old habit, he reasoned.

Despite the silence, Dean was certain that his mother had a lot to say but he was tired of listening. Tired of listening to his mother's pleas – well-intended as they were to smooth out the edges – but lately making him irrationally angry. Tired of listening to all the worshipers with whispering prayers to angels that did little to help them; tired of being seen as the wayward son when he was the only one in this muddle of a fucking village to have a desire to do something. He was just tired.

The morning sun was still pleasant as it caressed their backs and they reached the fields in no time. Dean's heart sank as he saw the wolfsbane surrounding the edge of their crops. Some of them had found their way between the potatoes; the carrot patches were also invaded and as Dean walked among the tomatoes he saw that they too were not spared.

“I'll start with the carrots. There is some cloth in the basket for you and a trowel.” Mary squeezed Dean's hand. “And thank you for helping me.”

“It's nothing, mom. Who else would do it?” Dean murmured as he walked over to the basket. He wound the cloth around his hands as good as he could and grabbed the trowel. Carefully he pushed away the potato leaves and dug the trowel into the hard earth next to a wolfsbane. Breaking into the soil he tried to unearth as much of the roots as possible before pulling out the plant. It was slow work; he needed to be thorough with the removal of the roots while also being careful not to disturb any potatoes. That the potato leaves resembled an impenetrable forest canopy was not making his work easier. 

After what felt like ages he was done with the potato patch. He looked up and saw that his mother had moved on to the tomatoes. The back of her simple dress was darkened by sweat and her hair lay plastered on her head. Dean imagined he didn't look any better himself. Putting away the trowel and unwinding the sweat-soaked cloth, he tossed them on the ground. He looked at the leaves on the potatoes, searching for any infestations but everything looked fine. Wrapping a hand around a stem of potatoes he pulled and unearthed some bulbs. They were small, too small and each cluster held maybe half of the potatoes compared to last year. One potato was shriveled up, resembling a dried up scrotum more than anything edible, if Dean was honest. He tried to force down his worry as he called out for his mother. “Mom, come over here.”

She kneeled down next to Dean and took a potato from his outstretched hand. She examined it carefully, almost too meticulous in her scrutiny but Dean waited. When there was no answer from her he deemed it impossible to stay quiet. 

“So... you're not gonna say something? This is worse than last year and I bet if we walk over to Charlie's field, or Samandriel's, hell, even Metatron's crops and take a look, the result will be the same.”

Mary sighed and he could see her thoughts churning. “It's still early. We have weeks, the crops have weeks to grow and the sun – “

Dean put a hand on his mother's arm. “Mom...”

She let out a weary sound and finally looked at Dean, letting the worry crease over her face. “We need to show this to your dad.”

Dean was not sure that was a good idea, or that it would accomplish anything but this was not a thing to turn a blind eye to. “Clean life, mom. You think he'll listen?” 

“Why wouldn't he? He'll see the crops for himself. Then he has to listen and maybe we can do something about – “

Dean interrupted his mother with a tired voice. “If the angels aren't listening I doubt dad will listen.”

His mother smacked him on the arm. “Dean Winchester. You may not believe in the angels, but they have faith in you.”

Remaining silent, Dean sighed. The angels were not listening but maybe Naomi would. She was the village Vision and the closest to an authority they had, besides the king and the angels of course. But the king was so far away it hardly counted; he and the angels were nowhere to be seen and barely heard as it was anyway. Dean paused. The angels. Dean knew an angel.

“Mom, will you be alright with the crops?”

His mom was already uprooting another cluster and shaking the soil from the tiny potatoes. The ones that were good she put in the basket and the bad ones she put in her apron pocket.

“Yes, I'll just need to pick some carrots and fetch some more barley from Mrs. Tran. Where will you go?”

“Back home to tend to the chickens and the coop. After that, I'll go to the river and bring more water to the crops.”

His mom nodded in gratitude. “Thank you... The buckets are in their usual place.” Mary smiled, a genuine tug of her lips that graced her face and made her look younger, happier, more vibrant than he could remember. 

Dean wished she would smile more. A weird impulse went through him and he pulled in his mother for a big hug, his arms wrapping around her. He noticed that she was, not frail, but thinner than he remembered her to be. Or maybe his first and foremost image of her would always be the one where he was a little boy with scuffed knees and her embracing him in a tight hug, strong and capable. In his eyes, she would always be bigger and he, always her child. “Love you, mom. See you back at the house.”

⸙

Agda was dying. Dean could tell by how she twitched feebly with her left leg, how her one eye seemed vacant, how her beak opened and closed listlessly. _Fuck_. Dean muttered every curse he knew under his breath as he gently picked her up and held her close. Her white feathers with dark speckles had always been a thing of beauty, and he'd loved the five previous Agda's before her too. But this Agda had been special. She not only knew her own name and came when he called. She used to love when Dean cuddled with her and followed him around when he did other chores around the house. Even when he grabbed a knife and sat in the shade carving she was with him. He used to joke that one day he'd knife her and eat her, but he'd never meant it. Already a few months into their unique friendship had he vowed to never kill her for meat. He knew it was foolish when food seemed to be scarce, and she laid the largest eggs but what else could he promise his favorite fowl?

Finally, her eyes closed and Dean held Agda some more before gently putting her on the ground. He'd already decided what he was going to do and he was glad no one was around to watch him. Dean didn't want to give anyone else more reason to talk about him. Grabbing a small shovel, he walked over to some bushes. They used to carry berries but for the last two years, green leaves had outnumbered white berries by far. 

He dug a hole quickly and then went back to retrieve Agda. Carefully, he placed her in the dugout hole and tossed dirt on top of her. He patted down the soil until it looked undisturbed enough not to garner any suspicion. “Water to drink, corn to nibble. Someone that was always with me, and you gave me the best cuddles and the tastiest eggs. Clean life and clear eyes, Agda. You had both. Not many humans can say that. You give those angels a sharp peck with your beak when you see them. They deserve it.”

As Dean went to the shed to put back the shovel he felt a storm of shivers crash over him. A coldness erupted between his shoulder blades before it trickled down his spine, like a small river heading back to its source. Dean's whole frame shook and although it was nice to cool down, this sensation was more akin to be being tossed into icy water and being held under at length. As fast as it appeared, as quickly was it gone. 

“Cas, fucking hell, do you mind giving me a warning before you do that?”

Castiel smiled as he flapped with his dark huge, wings before tucking them behind him. “Hello, Dean.” His voice was the same deep timbre as the first time Dean had met him, but everything else was different. 

Castiel smiled again, his eyebrow arching up as he took in all of Dean, his eyes shining otherworldly in that blue color that words failed to describe. 

Lightning desire struck Dean, grounding him before it traveled straight up to his heart, making it beat wildly. If Cas was the sun, Dean's heart was a tiny moth, beating its small wings to escape its imprisonment and be as close as possible to the light. To be consumed by fire was a small sacrifice to make to be near such brilliance.

Castiel took a step towards Dean, the hem of his robe dragging along the ground. “I did warn you. Hence those sensations you felt.” 

Cas was suddenly there in Dean's proximity and Dean surged forward. His fingers wound up in the angel's dark hair, massaging gently as he peppered Cas' neck with soft kisses. He could feel Cas' hands grab his waist and pull him in closer. 

Dean trailed kisses up Cas' jawline and he could swear on his life that Cas purred. Opening an eye, Dean saw that Cas had his own eyes closed. Now or never. Just as he was about to taste what he imagined was the sweet perfection of Cas' plump, gorgeous lips, fingers speared through Dean's hair, arching his head back. Dean hissed, more in disappointment than any actual pain and put his hands against Cas' chest, trying to shove him away.

Castiel let go of Dean and took a step back more than actually being shoved.

Dean tried to smooth out the anger lacing his voice but failed. “Did you take her? Damn you, Cas, she was my favorite chicken!”

Having the attention of Cas on him was always intense no matter what they were doing. “You said that about the previous chickens too. I had to take something. A chicken is a small life to take.” Castiel adjusted his robe and promptly sat down on the ground, ignoring the dust and dirt.

“It's still a life,” Dean grumbled and followed suit. He leaned in close to Cas but found the angle uncomfortable, so he scooted down some more until he could rest his head on Cas' thigh. He looked up at Cas. 

The angel's cerulean eyes were still framed by crinkles, evidence of his amusement but something more serious, sinister even swirled beneath them. “Would you like me to take something bigger next time?”

Dean shook his head and bit his lip. “No. I don't want that. Not that I can stop you though.”

Cas smiled at Dean's statement. “I'm inevitable.”

“Yeah, I guess you are. You're also infuriating.” Dean contemplated pulling on Cas' feathers to emphasize his point but decided that would make him seem like a petulant child more than anything else. His name and its association around the village of being weird didn't need an additional amendment to it.

A small chuckle escaped Castiel's lips. “How so?”

“I've had a shitty day. All I want is a kiss.”

Castiel's eyes turned cold. “There are other means for comfort than kisses, Dean.”

“Mm, like what? Me sucking your dick until it turns hard? You fucking me until I barely know my own name?” Dean knew he was unfair and he knew the anger he directed at Cas was unjust but he couldn't seem to stop himself.

“It is alright to cry, Dean.” Castiel's voice was soft, the fingers stroking his cheek softer.

Dean closed his eyes for a second, lost in the tender caress and the intoxicating presence that was Cas. “Why would I cry? It's just a fucking chicken. We have more chickens...”

“I know you. I know about death but more importantly, I know grief, sorrow. I know all of man's expressions of grief whether that is to mold it into a hard stone of anger and hurt that lashes out at loved ones or to temper it into something vicious that demands revenge, like a sickness to the heart that spreads until it's all-consuming ending in more death. I know how it can unleash a torrent of tears, constricting the chest until you think you are drowning and how not even the promise of sleep brings comfort. I know that it can tear asunder families, exposing bitter, hard truths and it can also bind people together, forge them through pain, but also love and care until a deeper connection is made, stronger than before. All grief is born from emotion and at the core of that emotion is love. But above all, I know that death is, and it doesn't really care about grief, or love. It exists regardless of humans' associations with it or their thoughts. And neither grief nor love will stop death in the end.”

After a moment's silence, Dean exhaled heavily, gaze locked on Cas. “Fuck Cas, for being an ancient being you really suck at the comforting part.”

Castiel shrugged. “Sometimes there is comfort in cold truth.” 

“I don't know about that. So, did Agda also have a book?”

“You expect me to reveal all the universe's mysterious to you, Dean?”

Dean chuckled. “Hey, there's got to be some perks to sleeping with the angel of Death.”

Castiel flared out his wings, arching them around and above them, shielding them from sunlight. Ebony feathers, somehow darker than his robe and the black mop of unruly hair that Dean loved to run his fingers through, was all Dean saw, that and the piercing blue of Cas' eyes that demanded attention. 

“Yes,” Cas spoke low as his finger danced over Dean's lips. He removed them suddenly as if this conversation was too important even for teasing play.

Dean cleared his throat, eager to know more. “Yes, what?”

“The chicken has a book too. Or in the case of chickens, it's more a line or two on a page than an actual book.”

“So when you came here to see me again, you just took the chicken? Killed it?”

Castiel sighed. “The choices the chicken made led to its death as I appeared. Just as other times it may be a squirrel, a fish in the river, a cow, or a man with a fever that never relents.”

Dean scoffed. “The chicken made choices? What kind of choices does a chicken make?”

“The choice to eat this that is poisonous and not that, to sleep here and not there, to peck at a larger chick and get trampled, all which can lead to death. Or not. And today it was Agda's turn. But no, this was not by my doing, my appearance here is not what caused Agda's death. Benny's bees might have a slight decrease in the population though.”

Reaching up to touch a soft feather, Dean sighed. “All this is giving me a headache.”

“Let me ease that for you, Dean.” Castiel bent down, kissing him on the forehead, then went lower to press his lips where neck met shoulder. 

Cas' soft lips on Dean's skin was like fire, spreading slowly with every kiss until he was thrumming with need. He let out a low moan as he felt a strong hand palm his thin linen pants and hardening cock. Dean thrust his hips up, silently begging Cas for more but as he opened his eyes Cas wore that smirk on his face that Dean equally loathed and needed. A small chuckle escaped him. The villagers may already have formed an opinion of him being weird in every which way, when the only odd thing about him was that he quite enjoyed the notion of being told what to do. 

The sensual kind of being ordered, where a harsh hand on his hip dug in when Cas was displeased, or the praise that flowed from his lips when Dean sucked Death hard just the way he liked, or how pleased Cas was that time when Dean needed to come but abstained because Cas told him not to. Sure, Dean had been in a foul mood for a day or two, but curiously enough a sense of pride in himself lingered nonetheless, almost outweighing the need for physical release. Cas was torment and release, pain and pleasure, he was Death but also the only one that made Dean pulse with the vibrancy of life.

To have the hands of Death on him brought Dean to the precipice of imminent pleasure. His body was vibrating with love and lust. A notion hit him and Dean groaned in sudden displeasure. His voiced suspicions came out in small, panted whispers.“Cas... is this going to be another one – one of those times when you – “

Dean was cut off, his breath hitching as a strong hand wound its way inside his pants, smearing the small amount of fluid, the proof of his arousal, over his cock. 

“You were saying?” Cas was measured in his movements, every nudge, grip, and stroke made to elicit whatever response he desired. Dean's body was a constellation of stars and Cas was a master in reading the hidden meanings in Dean's small movements and undulations. Every caress on skin were lights in the night sky and Dean's entire being was narrowed down to that strong, unyielding hand in his pants; any moment now he would explode like a supernova.

“I.. I was saying that – “

He could feel Cas flick his thumb over his head just the way he liked, and then squeeze hard. Everything that had been coiled released violently, like the spring waters bursting free from the harsh grip of winter and Dean took a strong hold of black feathers as he closed his eyes and came in his pants.

Just as abruptly as his release, the world came back to him and with it the sudden awareness that he was on the dusty ground with dirty pants. Dean moaned as he rubbed his forehead. “Are you still...um, not here?”

“If you are referring to the temporal space void that my presence on this physical plane causes then yes, that particular curiosity is still in place.” Cas' blue eyes shone with mirth. He eased his hand away from Dean's cock, slowly bringing his fingers to his mouth. He licked his fingers clean with languorous swipes of his tongue.

Dean followed Cas' every movement, then narrowed his eyes, groaning. “I think I'm having a headache again. Not sure if that is because of your explanation or because the image of you doing that is too much for my mind to handle.”

Cas shook out his wings, his tone even. “Probably both. Come now, Dean. You have a task to attend to.”

Brushing off the worst of the dust, Dean stopped at Cas' declaration. “What task?” He glanced down at the buckets. “Fuck, water. The crops! This is all your fault.”

“Are you blaming your faulty memory on an ancient angel? Are you not supposed to cover and simper and do my every bidding? Do you not get counsel from the other angels through your Vision as to the proper conduct when in consort with one of their own?”

Dean shook his head and spat on the ground.“Naomi's counsel is from herself and for herself. And faulty memory is not what happened here.” Dean made a gesture encompassing Cas' dark hair, the ocean-blue eyes, his well-toned body, and wings. “You, I blame you. You don't even have a wart. I'm disappointed.”

“Witches, Dean. The ones that dabble with ancient magic are supposed to have warts. I am perfection.”

Dean snorted but didn't object. 

“Grab your buckets, Dean and come here.”

Slowly Dean did as Cas bid him. “You are not going to do something... weird?”

“For how long have you known me?” Cas' finger trailed down his freckled nose.

“Well, depends. I saw you when I was four the first time so that makes it almost two decades, but to be perfectly honest, just you being an angel is pretty weird in the first place so I guess– ”

“I don't do weird.” With that Castiel grabbed Dean's upper arm and everything went black.

Dean went down on his knees, trying to expel the queasy sensation in his body but his stomach cramped around emptiness. Taking a few calming breaths that really didn't do much to soothe his frayed nerves, Dean turned to Cas. “What in the seven blind eyes was that?!” 

The rush of water nearby and the tall grass swaying in a gentle breeze was welcoming in its familiarity. Over there were the yellow berry bushes and the green foliage of the trees that seemed smaller, more insignificant now when he was not a child anymore. The water still tasted worse here than upstream, deep in the forest. Tradition or stubborn headed stupidity, Dean had realized kept the villagers from venturing farther out. If angels were watching over them, to Dean it seemed odd that more people were willing to cling to fears and tales then actually trust the guidance of these celestial beings.

“I think the proper response would be a 'thank you'. I saved you a long and lonely walk. Now you can fill up your buckets and continue with your task at hand.”

A sudden thud was heard and then the rustling of leaves.

“A dead squirrel”, Cas continued as if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened.

Dean opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again. He exhaled and tried again. “When were you gonna tell me about, whatever the fuck just happened?”

Cas tilted his head to the side. “Oh, that.”

“Yes, that!”

“I just extended my ability to warp the time and space void, bringing it so close as to almost make it instantaneous.” Seeing the state of confusion on Dean's face Castiel continued. “I brought you from one place to another one, with a single thought. A perk of being an angel.”

“That's a perk Naomi never preaches about.”

Castiel sat down on a tree stump. “Naomi's understanding of the nature of angels is severely hampered as it is filtered through the human intellect.”

“Human intellect. That is to speak too highly of Naomi.” Dean touched the black purse attached to his belt – pleased that it was still there – tied up tightly even with how he had reached the river. As his hand let go of the purse he could feel Cas' eyes on him and a chill went through him. _If it's full you can never be bought._ Words that had been branded into the very core of Dean.

Cas had never asked about the purse and Dean had never told him. Besides that one time a lifetime ago where Cas had retrieved the coin from the river, he had never shown any interest in it. Clutching the purse once, Dean let go and grabbed a bucket. The river flowed gently and was cool as he dipped the bucket in. His muscles barely strained as he pulled it up back up again. His thoughts went to his mother who had had to do this walk day after day for years until he was strong enough to do this particular chore. 

Dean found an even patch of grass and put the bucket down as he grabbed the second one. Two buckets filled, he cupped his hands and took a mouthful of water, swirling the liquid around to clean his mouth. When all remnants of the foul-tasting bile were gone, only water tinged with something else was left. He spat it out.

“You want to accompany me home?” Dean asked as he wiped his mouth clean.

Cas got up, stretching his wings in a magnificent display that still left Dean in awe. He was certain that he left them out for Dean's benefit but also because he enjoyed someone 'singing their praise' as Cas had stated one day. Dean didn't know about the singing praise part, but they were beautiful. Although the black of his wings was striking in its beauty, when the sun hit them just right, brilliant blue shimmers could be seen along the feathers. In those moments Dean fell in love with Cas all over again.

“I need to – “

“Attend to rotten fish, mauled snails, and bloated humans?”

Cas laughed. “Yes. That is my domain after all.” His laughter waned away, a tinge of gravity entering as he spoke again. “Even in death, there is a balance. I come when the time is right, the choice is – “

Dean nodded. “I understand.” Looking down, a curse escaped him. “Cas! I can't walk home like this.”

The air of solemnity around Cas broke away as his lips quirked up into a smile. “I think it suits you. Marked by Death with a sign of life.”

Rolling his eyes, Dean tried to rub away the stain on his pants. “I can't walk home with a come stain like this.”

“No one will notice.”

“Like hell they won't, “ Dean grumbled. 

Castiel let out a sigh. “Come here, Dean.”

“You are very funny and commanding.” Dean walked up to the spot where Cas pointed.

A soft finger caressed his cheek. “I was under the impression you enjoyed a commanding presence, Dean.”

Smiling, Dean leaned into the caress. “Only if that presence is you, Cas. So, you gonna do your magic and clean my pants?”

Cas leaned in, inhaling the scent of Dean. “Yes.” He kissed the side of Dean's jaw and traveled up slowly until Dean could feel the tingle of Cas's breath on his ear. “Close your eyes.”

Dean closed them and waited. Strong hands against his chest were the only warning he got before Cas shoved him forcefully. Trying to find balance was a lost cause and Dean tumbled down into the river with a big splash. Just as he breached the surface of the water he saw Cas fly back until he was well away from the edge.

“Cas!” Dean could see the bastard grinning as he heaved himself up. Soaked clothes tried to drag him back down but they were no match for Dean's strength or his rage. “Why? – What the hell?”

“You never specified. I believe your pants are clean now.” Cas tried to sound solemn but gave up and laughed as Dean narrowed his eyes in displeasure.

“I didn't mean you tossing me into the fucking river. How am I going to explain this to my mom?”

Cas shrugged. “You slipped?

“I – You are dead.” Dean tried to sound angry but it came out more like an annoyed declaration than anything else, tinged with a thread of amused pride.

“Death, technically.”

Dean ignored Cas' laughter and grabbed his two buckets, starting his walk home.

“The heat from the sun has not yet peaked. Regard this as a favor, an act of consideration on my part.”

I will forgive you but not today.” Dean came to a sudden halt as something about their earlier conversation struck him and ignited a small fragment of hope. A sign of life. “Cas, is it possible for you as Death to kill all – “

Dean turned, only to find that Cas had vanished. Muttering under his breath, Dean tightened his hold on the bucket handles and continued walking, accompanied by the squelching sound of wet shoes.


	4. Confrontation

Gingerly, Dean lowered the buckets and put them in the shade close to the house wall as he flexed his fingers. After a while, even the thick smooth handles had dug in uncomfortably. “Mom!” he called out as he walked around the corner. Usually, she would be under the shade of a tree, brushing the dirt and grime off the vegetables she'd decided would be for supper or conserved for later use, but all Dean saw was an empty stool. Rubbing sweat off his forehead, Dean opened the door to the house, welcoming the promise of nice shade sheltering him from the increasing heat of the sun.

He froze at the sight before him. His mother was on the floor, motionless with her limbs sprawled out like one of the rag dolls Charlie had played with when she was five summers old before discarding it for the more adventurous games of rock climbing and chasing chickens. For a brief second, cold panic washed over Dean and he was back again to the scene that had taken place almost two decades ago on the very same floor. Goosebumps rose on his skin as he heard the screams of his mother, holding Sam in her arms, all over again.

Rousing himself out of haunting memories that threatened to trap him in a state of inaction, Dean knelt down and touched his mom's cheek. Her skin didn't feel clammy nor was it burning with the signs of fever. He pressed fingers on the side of her throat as he'd seen Anael do and was relieved when he found a beating pulse. Wrapping his hands around her arms, Dean shook her. “Mom, wake up!” Her head fell to one side, but there was no sign of her listening to or even being aware of his pleadings. Pleas! 

Dean uttered the first words that came to mind as he prayed to beings he'd long ago decided where not there – and if they were – had stopped caring. “Angels, how about paying your weight in salt for all those prayers, right about fucking now?” He grimaced as he realized it wasn't the most eloquent form of prayer, but wasn't every wish a kind of prayer or some other horse dung that he'd heard Naomi utter when attending worship.

Waiting a few agonizing seconds more and then peering at his mom's listless form was proof enough of the angels' refusal and his own failure. When words defeated him, which in Dean's opinion happened plenty in his life, he took action. He slapped his mother hard. 

Mary woke up with a start, her cheek probably burning. Dean grabbed her close, hugging her tightly as he whispered her name over and over again. Relief surged through him. She was still here, his to keep for a while longer.

When Dean thought his voice was steady enough he spoke.“What happened, mom? I just got back from the river with the – “

Mary blinked a few times and reached out her hand to touch Dean's cheek, reassuring him. “I think I fainted. Must have been the heat. I should've had more water before we went to the fields.” She got up on two feet, still wobbly.

Dean steadied her, his hands on her arm a support, as he guided her towards a chair. “Please, mom sit down. I'll go get you some water.” Grabbing a bowl, Dean filled it up and went back inside to his mother. She looked pale and tired but she was alive.

“Thank you, Dean.” She smiled quickly before taking the bowl and sipping some water. Sighing, she leaned back on the chair, the bowl balancing precariously on her knees. She rubbed her cheek absentmindedly.

Clearing his throat, Dean got up and grabbed a cloth that he dabbed in the water. As he pressed the fabric on her cheek, she hissed. “Sorry, mom. I just figured some cold would prevent it from hurting too much. I didn't mean to slap you so hard. I just wanted to – “

Her hand wrapped around his, squeezing hard. “It's fine, Dean. I'm glad you were here, that you came. You saved me. I shudder to think what could have transpired if you were not here. Please, go to my chest and grab some arnica paste.”

“No worries mom. Drink more water, I'll get the paste.”

Dean found the smooth wooden box containing the paste, with a lid in the shape of a ladybug. Despite everything that had happened and his worry over his mother, Dean smiled. He'd carved that box himself years ago and the knowledge that it was still put to good use by his mother warmed his heart. Returning to his mother's side, Dean took a dollop of the paste on his finger.

His mother took some more gulps of water, shaking her head. “That's too much. Just a thin layer that you spread over the cheek.”

“More the better, no?” Dean's tone was light, but he'd seen how shaken up his mother was and that caused him pain. He should have been there to protect her, even if that meant to remind her to drink water. A small thought poked at his attention. His mother had been a caretaker of the fields for decades, and she was very knowledgeable about how to do so without his protection.

“Not always. Too much of the paste is toxic. We don't want to turn a minor burn into a major condition.”

“Alright, just a smudge then.”

Scraping off some of the paste, Dean spread a thin layer over her cheek with soft fingers. Her skin felt smooth but he took note of the small wrinkles around her eyes and forehead. Looking closer he noticed that silver strands of hair were scattered among still golden ones. When he was done, Dean grabbed his mother's hand and kissed it. Her wrist seemed more thin and wiry. Dean raised his gaze, looking into her eyes. She smiled reassuringly at him and it hit him all of a sudden. His mother had aged. She was not old – not like old Campbell that looked like a living and breathing dried up prune walking around the village with his spotty skin and gnarly walking cane – but she was not the woman of youth that his mind tried to convince him to cling to. 

“Is that better?”

She smiled. “Much better. Thank you. I'll just rest here for awhile.”

“I think the bed would be somewhat softer, right? Don't worry about anything, mom. I'll take care of the chickens and water the plants. You just rest, promise me. Drink plenty of water and maybe take a nap. Angels know you deserve it.”

“Supper needs to be – 

“I'll put the chicken bones in and start the boil too. Resting one day won't kill you, mom.” Dean grimaced when he realized that was probably not the best choice of words, but his mother just laughed.

“It won't. Maybe I can continue embroidering that tunic for you. With the nettles and sunflowers.”

“Sounds like a good idea.”

After bringing the water to a boil with the chicken bones and some barley, Dean left the kettle to simmer on low heat. Done with feeding the chickens and collecting eggs, he walked hurriedly to the fields. Although his mother was fine, and her passing out had been due to dehydration, Dean wanted to be back at the house and look after her. His black coin purse swayed back and forth on his belt as he walked. He scoffed at its silent reminder, and the promise he'd made his mother all those years ago; never to remove the purse or use the coins. It was his mother that needed the protection against death, not him.

⸙

Finished with watering the crops, Dean was almost home when he saw a figure coming along the other path leading from the village center to their house. Dean recognized the gait of his father anywhere. Looking up at the blue sky where Dean saw no indication of it turning darker, and the sun still shining brightly told him that John was home early, something that rarely happened. Shaking his head and saying every curse he could imagine silently under his breath, Dean tried to walk as fast as he could without actually running. He still remembered how they had parted on bad terms and with the condition his mother was in now Dean knew that things most likely would not be smoothed over with his father. He was not even sure he wanted that anymore.

As John approached the house, Dean had already put the buckets away. He looked out over the big tree, reminiscing of childhood when everything was easier even though he knew that was a pure lie, before turning his attention back at his father. It seemed to him that children knew only of small problems whereas the problems of adults grew like weeds, hidden and unnoticeable until it was too late to remedy the root cause of the issue.

The usual signs of his dad's daily work could be seen in the wooden dust dabbled in his dark beard, the shavings attached to his clothes and the general weariness on his face. His dad slowed down when he noticed Dean outside the house.

“You are home early,” Dean began. “Something wrong?”

His dad looked at him thoughtfully before speaking up. “I could say the same about you. Shouldn't you be out helping your mother?”

“I have been. Dad, when I got back from the river – “

His father nodded and his lips pulled down in displeasure as he interrupted Dean. “If you were to really help, really make a difference, then you'd stop running around in the forests, trying to kill yourself doing who knows what, and do your craft! Do it for the sake of this family, to help your mother and me, to help yourself. I won't be able to do this forever.” John raked his fingers through his hair, dusting off some dirt before pinning his eyes on Dean again. “You know, some villagers are talking about you not being in the right... frame of mind.”

Dean had a scathing response on his tongue when a wave of cold erupted between his shoulder blades. His eyes widened in shock but he didn't have time to say anything. Instead, he focused on clenching his teeth shut and forced himself not to twitch. It was a peculiar sensation to fight off not only the cold Cas always brought with him but also the surge of fearful heat that went through him as he realized Cas was right there next to him and his dad. Dean turned his head just in time to see Cas flare out his dark wings in greeting. Fuck.

His dad took a step back with a start. “Fucking bird.” 

Dean wasn't sure that Cas would agree with the term bird; his appearance was certainly more angelic than avian. Tearing his eyes off Cas who nodded his head, all the while smiling, Dean focused his attention back on his dad.

“What? The b– ?” Dean tried not to sound as confused as he felt.

His dad made a disgusted face and pointed at the ground with his shoe. There on the trampled road, a small bird lay dead. Pale eyelids were closed and a small speck of blood on the beak was the only sign of its demise. “Probably a bird of prey dropped it.”

“So what was that he said about you not being in the right state of mind, Dean?” Castiel walked behind him and Dean had to force himself not to turn again. 

His back prickled in warning but Cas' warm hand gripped the back of his neck and squeezed in reassurance. 

“You seem tense, Dean. There is no need to be.” Dean exhaled as Cas kneaded muscles locked tight in apprehension and confusion.

“What do you mean 'there is no need to be'? Is my dad dying?” Dean's voice was a whisper. He didn't want his father to hear him muttering with familiarity to a being he worshiped.

The hand on the back of his neck stilled. “Oh. No. Not at all. I just wanted to see you. Sorry if I gave you that impression of your father's fate. He is going to die, of course, just not yet.” When Cas noticed that Dean was still tight and stiff, he splayed his fingers and wound them in his hair instead. 

“Dean. Your father can't see nor hear me. We are in a temporal vortex of – “

Still whispering, Dean spoke, allowing some anger in his voice. “What the hell does that even mean?”

Dean felt Cas grip his hair tighter and a flash of desire coursed through him. The situation was wreaking havoc on his mind. His legs wanted to carry him as far away from his dad as possible, his tongue had some sharp retorts to expel and his cock wanted to bury itself into Cas. Dean felt himself wanting to give in to hysterical laughter.

“You have nothing to fear. I'm shielded from your father's eyes. Only you can see and talk to me. You can talk freely to me but at the same time your father can still see you so, don't do any odd movements you wouldn't do otherwise. Just talk to me whenever you feel the need arise, your father will be none the wiser.”

Exhaling deeply did nothing to alleviate the magnitude of insanity that was happening right before Dean's eyes. “Alright, I don't – Please, Cas, can you just stand next to my dad?” Dean's voice was a pleading whisper.

Cas nodded in understanding. “Of course, I know this is... spectacular.”

“Trust me, Cas, spectacular is not the word I would use right now.”

Bringing his wings closer to his body, Cas adjusted his hood before walking over to John. He remained silent.

“I try not to listen to them,” John sighed, “but you are making it damn hard, Dean.”

Dean tried to gather his thoughts and refocus his attention on his dad.

“The villagers, Dean. John tries not to let their assessment of your mental constitution affect him but he suspects there has to be a reason for your disobedience and your nature escapades.” Castiel looked pleased with himself.

Glancing at the angel of Death quickly, Dean replied.“I don't need your help, Cas.” Then in an instant, faced his father again.

“I'm not crazy dad, just really tired. Tired of everyone, including you, not dealing with what really is important. Mom – ”

John took a step forward, his finger raised. If Dean felt tired, his dad looked tired. His black beard was slowly turning gray, there were soft bags under his eyes and even his finger seemed crooked, like a gnarly stick, the way old people seemed to turn twisty and knobby past a certain age. His dad was not tired but old. 

“Your life is important! Or do you care so little for your mother and me that you are fine with squandering that gift? Life is a gift from the angels and you should apologize right now for the uncalled worry you have put your mother through. The worry you have put me through! We deserve to hear that you're sorry.” 

Sudden rage boiled in Dean's blood. He looked briefly at Cas, who had schooled his face into a mask of casual indifference, then back at the man who was his father. His voice came out low, tempered with anger. “Sorry? You want to hear that I'm sorry? Alright. I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I never got to play with other children and have friends like everyone else. I'm sorry that all I received from you was disappointed looks and scoldings. I'm sorry that no one ever fucking listens!” 

Dean's dad was silent, like he was too stunned to take in what Dean was saying or that he was actually saying those things at all. 

”I'm sorry that we can't eat fucking wood cause that would make your life easier. I'm sorry that you are afraid! That this whole village is so paralyzed by fear and that instead of walking out there, beyond the Edge to see how things are for yourselves, you listen to Naomi. I'm sorry that I found my mother, your wife on the floor today passed out, working the fields. And for what? Crops that grow scarcer every year? Crops that rot, fail and turn foul?” Dean paused, breathing heavily.

Cas spoke up. “I can take you away if you so desire, Dean.” Beyond those words, he didn't offer anything else, but just that Cas had done so was in and of itself enough for Dean.

“No, Cas. I appreciate the offer but... no. The time for avoidance is over.”

“It seems so, yes.” Cas nodded, smiling softly. 

John walked up to Dean, grabbing his arm. “What did you say about Mary?” There was genuine concern in his voice, enough to take off the worst edge of Dean's anger.

Dean pulled away from his dad's grip.“I found her on the floor when I was back from the river. The sun was really hot and I think she hadn't had enough water to drink. She is good now. In bed.” 

If John had seemed momentarily surprised it quickly morphed into a scowl. He spat on the ground. “You should have protected her. You were there and did nothing!”

“And where were you?”

His dad seemed at loss for words at first but quickly found himself. He started walking towards their house, confident that Dean would follow. “If you would have only done your duty and kept her safe.”

“What about your duty to this family?”

John stopped in his tracks to face Dean, determination shining in his eyes. “I've done everything in my power to help you. And all I've ever gotten from you at every turn has been disobedience, just like now.”

Dean raised his hands in surrender. “You can't be serious.”

“I'm very serious. All I did, I did out of love. To protect you. But it seems like you are determined to destroy yourself. Every rule, every decision, I did for you, Dean!” I never wanted for you to – “ 

“You never wanted what?”

John paused as if trying to suppress the words, but they emerged anyway, as he screamed. “Sammy died!”

“Everybody dies!” Dean shouted back. It felt liberating to say it. As if those words released a truth but also freed him from burdens imposed on him since he'd been a child. “Everybody dies, dad...”

He could see Cas nod his head in acquiescence. “Everybody dies, Cas?”

Castiel pulled up his hood, speaking with surety. “Everybody dies, Dean.”

Dean's dad looked at him as if he had sprouted a horn in the middle of his forehead. After a few seconds, he found his voice, and gone were all traces of anger. Only deep sadness remained, a silent echo of the state of John's heart, finally expressed. “He shouldn't have died, Dean. Not then, not like that. He shouldn't have died.” 

Dean was shocked to see tears fall down his father's checks and just like that his own anger evaporated, leaving behind a hollow sadness at how things had turned out and remained for so long. “I know, dad. I'm sorry.” 

“I'm... sorry too.” John paused briefly. “I need to go to your mother and check up on her.” He took a step forward, opened his mouth as if to say something to Dean but chose to remain silent, nodding instead.

“Alright.”

When his dad was out of sight, Dean sighed, tired to his very bones. “Cas?”

Castiel walked up to Dean slowly, like he was afraid any sudden movements would scare him away. He grabbed Dean's hand and kissed his knuckles softly.

Dean closed his eyes, finding solace in the gesture and Cas' presence. “Can you take me away?”

Castiel placed his other hand on Dean's shoulder. “Of course.” 

With that, they were gone.


	5. Adoration

Dean shielded his eyes against the bright light of the sun reflecting on the ocean waves. The ocean was unlike any water he'd ever seen, a pale, light blue so clear that he was certain he could see every sea creature crawling on the sandy bottom. He turned his back on the soft waves rolling onto shore, only to face another blinding source of light. Soft dunes of white sand stretched out along the ocean-side as far as Dean could see. Here and there odd trees – their bark smooth and leaves long and fern-like – dotted the otherwise pristine landscape. As far as Dean could discern he and Cas were the only ones there. 

“When I said take me away, I wasn't expecting this. This is... amazing, Cas.” Dean smiled as he walked over to a tree, touching the bark. “Where are we?”

“It is remarkable. That is called a palm tree. And we are an ocean away from the place you call home. This island hasn't had any humans set foot on it. It's been spared from curious eyes for countless centuries.” His lips twitched into a smile. “That is, until now.” Castiel walked over to Dean, who looked at him in surprise. 

“Your clothes... “ Dean had never seen Cas in any other garbs than the black hooded robe, but now he was wearing a plain white floor-length tunic and there were some dark smudges under his eyes, causing the blue of his irises to almost glow in contrast. As he moved something sparkled in his hair. “Cas, is that gold in your hair?”

Castiel's eyes widened slightly and he spoke with hesitation. “Yes... I had to attend to a soul while I was taking you away. Some duties require me to be more _present_.” He suddenly looked guilty, his gaze flickering to the ground before turning back to Dean again. 

It was disconcerting to see that look on Cas' face. Dean didn't think he'd ever seen him have any reason to feel guilty about anything. He grabbed Cas' hand. “I don't know what happened, but you look nice. The charcoal drops under your eyes really make you seem more intense.” He snorted. “Not that you are lacking intensity though, Cas. I swear on you, that just the right look, a whisper from your mouth and I'd be engulfed in flames.”

Suddenly Cas' wings flashed into existence, dark and alluring. “I'm Death. I hardly think mild would be the right word to use when describing me.”

Pulling at Cas' arm they sat down in the soft sand. “If everyone could see you as I do, Cas, believe me, mild would be the last word on their minds.” Dean removed his shoes and dug his toes into the warm sand until they were totally buried. Old habit made him ghost his fingers over that place in the belt where his purse had a constant home. He wrapped his hand around it, feeling its heavy weight before relaxing. Pulling at Cas' leg, the angel spread them so Dean could nestle himself in between them, his back leaning against Cas' chest. 

“I'm sorry, Dean. I hope you know it was not my intention to leave. Our time is precious to me and I don't want you to think that I was abandoning you. There are some rules even Death has to adhere to...”

Shaking his head in denial, Dean caressed Cas' arm, feeling the muscles play as he moved slightly. “You were there all along, Cas. You whisked me away.”

“I was there partially, yes.”

“Partially?”

“I left a piece of me with you so I could take you here. Most of my attention was on Lily of the Sunders.” 

Dean moved his toes, playing with the soft sand. “Who? You are telling me you were somewhere else? But I saw you?”

Castiel chuckled as he played with Dean's hair. “You of all people should know that there is more than meets the eye in this world, Dean. I am everywhere death is and even in life, I'm a lingering promise of shadows to come. Have I not said that I'm inevitable?”

“I thought that was just you talking. Trying to woo me.” Dean yelped as Cas pulled at his hair. “Hey, what was that for?”

“While I do know your penchant for inescapable, hard and unyielding _force_, whether, with actions or words, that was not my attempt to woo you. I don't need attempts. It happens as I will it.”

Dean crossed his arms, feigning insult. “Only when it comes to me, those things happen.” 

“Nothing to be alarmed over, Dean. You know you're not a conquest. You are so much more.” 

Stroking one of Cas' dark feathers Dean decided to steer the conversation to something else before the heat he was feeling spread to his cheeks. Words of praise – even though he yearned for it – was still a strange notion, something that chafed instead of soothed his soul. It didn't mean he couldn't be polite though.

“Thanks, Cas. I think. So, who was this Lily of Sunders that demanded your attention?

Cas hesitated. Dean could feel it in the sudden tension of his muscles as he was pressed against Cas' chest, in how the playful fingers in his hair stopped to just rest there. “Is this one of those secrets of the universe that is not for my ears?”

Deciding that whatever it was Cas knew was suitable for Dean's ears, after all, the caress started again. Softness laced with an intense grip in places where fingers dug into his skull, which made him close his eyes in appreciation.

“No, I can tell you about this. Lily of Sunders was a half-angel, a Nephilim. Her people revered angels and saw her birth as a sign of life that would save their dying world. She was marked to die to save her people.”

“That sounds... absolutely crazy.”

“What is crazy for some, is normalcy for others. What some call magic, others name science.” 

“Science? I will just take your word for whatever that is, don't need an explanation. I guess you'd know,” Dean mumbled. “Not about the crazy part, but you've been around, Cas, for a long time.” 

“Yes, the universe is vast and I'm old.” Cas continued. “Her grace would wash over the planet and heal it. They had prayed for my coming for days. Given the stature of Lily and who she was, I was there personally when she died.”

“Is that why you appeared as... not yourself when you came back to me?”

Cas angled one of his wings to shade Dean's face from the sun that had climbed higher – inadvertently painting his face with speckled light – making him squint. “When I collect souls in person, their mind's conception of death allows me to show myself to them as they see me. So in Lily's mind, she envisioned me as the High Priest of her people, so that was what I appeared as.”

“Hence the gold and black. Alright. So when you collect a chicken you mold yourself as a chicken?” Dean laughed at the idea. “I bet you are beautiful as a chicken too, Cas. Bok bok bagok!” Dean erupted in laughter.

“I hardly collect chickens in person. They transcend on their own, Dean.”

After calming himself down and wiping a stray tear that ran down his cheek, Dean turned serious. “So, did it help? Did her... grace swarm the planet and save it from whatever it needed saving from?”

“No.”

“No? Then why did you take – ?”

“Her death was by her choice and making; every action eventually leads to death for every being. Everybody dies. I'm the angel of Death, Dean. What every soul believes of me is not on me. Just as the consequences of sacrifice for one like Lily of the Sunders or her people – whether fulfilled or failed – are not on me. I take souls, I don't judge or condemn them, nor does me taking them influence cosmic events.” As an afterthought, he added, “Usually, me taking souls doesn't alter cosmic events.”

Dean just nodded. There was something in the back of his mind that prodded for his attention. Sign of life. Marked by death. Suddenly he remembered, and excitement made his blood rush faster. He faced Cas, the exhilaration strangely enough causing him to whisper instead of shouting. “Cas, you are Death, right?”

“Your observational skills are remarkable.” Castiel quipped. “But yes, that is known.”

Trailing a finger over Cas' feathers, Dean enjoyed the smile that came over his face. Castiel closed his eyes as Dean continued to run his fingers through the feathers. Soon he felt his arm going numb from the stroking and odd angle, so he settled on touching Cas' arm instead. It was strange that he felt so physical and real, despite being something as otherworldly as an angel.

“How specific are your life-stealing abilities, Cas?” Cas folded his wings, allowing Dean to feel the soft strokes of sunlight on his skin again. His hands were back in Dean's hair, and the sensation soothed him, causing him to purr like a cat. Cas' ministrations were almost enough to make Dean forget about the shortage of food, the crops going bad, his family. Almost. “I know you collect souls, but trees die, leaves wither. I'm pretty sure moss dries up and fades away, crumbles or whatever moss does when it dies.”

“Humans die because of their choices or other's choices. Even to follow others is a choice, Dean. They die because it's in their nature to die, and that goes not just for humans but for all living things. For some that is a quick process, for others, it's exceedingly slow.” Cas' blue eyes bore into Dean's. “I recall saying that everybody dies. And everything dies.”

“Yes, but – “

Cas put a finger against Dean's lips. “I mean this. Everybody dies. There are rules in this universe, Dean. While I'm inevitable, actions do have consequences. Sometimes those linger on for generations to come and at times the only consequence is for one single soul, immediate and swift.”

Dean rose up from between Cas' legs and turned to face him. Cas' wings were tucked behind him; he looked serene as he waited for Dean to unburden his heart. Dean had a disturbing notion that Cas was avoiding the question, and the gnawing suspicion angered him. “So you're saying that I should just give up? Pull my head down and do nothing, like it seems everyone in my village – fuck, the whole kingdom – are doing?”

“No. What you do Dean, is your choice.” Castiel turned and looked out over the waters. A fraught quiet settled over them until Castiel decided to break the silence. “I know what you are asking me. Can I purge every sickness from your village? Can I kill the plants that are poisonous, and thus get rid of the diseases that are killing your crops, killing you?”

A small breeze wound its way around Dean's body and reminded him of where he was, as if nature itself demanded to be adulated, urging him to forget the petty grievances that humans concerned themselves with. Dean took a step forward, digging his feet into the alabaster sand. Exhaling, he looked out over the ocean. It was a breathtaking view with the water reaching as far as he could see, and the sunlight made a spectacular display, the light almost blinding him with its intensity. 

Dean glanced over at Cas. To him, Cas had been his friend, and later someone he loved and was in love with for so many years that the mind-shattering knowledge that he was an angel sometimes escaped him. Where other people believed in the angels, Dean _knew_. He knew they were real, and although he knew some mysteries – the ones that Cas told him – that was more than most people could claim. At this moment, Dean could almost feel the unknown that was Cas, the ethereal truths and hidden secrets that seemed to exude from every pore of his being. He was sure that if he reached out, that aura would be a tangible thing. “So you are saying that you won't do it because... we all have choices as humans, and – the universe would crumble if you meddled?”

A small smile tugged at Castiel's lips. “That is a good summation of the situation, yes. Free will is important.”

Dean dropped to the ground, the soft sand catching him. He grabbed a handful of sand, letting it sift between his fingers. “Choices, mm... Do you have choices?”

“Yes. They are by far not the multitude of choices you humans have, but they are enough for the angel that I am.”

Dean sighed, letting the last of the sand fall away, along with his final hope of Cas being a solution to his troubles. “We need to go. My dad will wonder where we are. And I need to look after my mom.”

Castiel sat down next to Dean. “It's only been a minute, maybe two, back in your village.”

Dean pursed his lips. “Is this some kind of … temporal void again?”

Castiel nodded. “Yes, courtesy of me. I thought you'd crave some peace and quiet after the altercation with your father.”

Rubbing a hand over his face, Dean sighed. “You guessed right. I don't know if this will change anything between him and me, but I've never seen him cry like that, or talk about Sammy really, in years. I hope this will mean something. We'll see. Enough about that.” Dean made a motion with his hand, fingers beckoning. “Come here.”

Tilting his head to the side, Castiel answered. “I'm already as close to you as possible.”

“Well, that's not close enough. And I know a way to make the impossible possible.” Dean smirked, his eyes dropping lower.

“You only need to ask the question, Dean.”

Dean was done with questions and waiting for things to happen. He was ready to take. 

He saw Cas arch an eyebrow in surprise to the unaccustomed boldness when Dean melded his lips to the crock of Cas' neck, who soon yielded, arching his head subtly, to give Dean better access. 

“I think I know what closeness you are talking about.” There was amusement in Castiel's voice. “Let me help you.” Castiel snapped his fingers.

Dean broke off from the delectable temptation that was Cas' skin as he felt the touch of warm wind on his naked skin. Peering at Cas, he saw that the angel had divested himself of the robe too. Laughing, Dean went back to tasting Cas' skin, murmuring against the heat of him. “Did you just use magic to get us naked faster?”

“I use what I can.” 

Dean looked around and relaxed when he saw their clothes in a pile further away. “Everything’s still there, right Cas?”

“Everything.” A flicker of pain went over Cas' face. Dean saw it in the slight downturn of his lips, in how his eyebrows knitted together; even the cerulean of his eyes seemed hooded with tangible grief. As quickly as it appeared, it was gone, leaving Cas as Dean had known him forever; strong, beautiful, and mysterious. It had happened with such speed that Dean began questioning if he'd really caught those small tells on Cas's face at all.

Castiel opened his hand to reveal a small vial containing a clear oil.

Grabbing the vial and sticking it in the sand, Dean nodded in approval. “Mm, you always use what you can and right now I wanna use you.” Dean's hands roamed over strong arms, his nails leaving a red trail as they raked Cas' skin. Their hands and fingers clasped together as Dean kissed Cas' collarbone, slowly making way down his firm chest. The wind ruffled his hair, bringing with it the taste of salt. Dean stopped his exploration only to take a slow lick at the angel. The subtle taste of salty sweat mingled with the essence that was solely Cas. If that was Dean's only sustenance for years, he'd never starve. 

“I love that tongue of yours Dean, just a bit further south and you'll have your prize.” 

Dean could practically hear the satisfied smirk in his angel's voice. Cas eased his hands off from Dean's grip. As Dean knelt in the warm sand, Cas' hands were in his hair, guiding him towards his cock that was already hard and waiting. Kissing the head – small reverent worships in the beginning that turned bold – with Dean flicking his tongue and finally sucking hard, elicited a cascade of moans from Cas.

Subtly, Cas started to thrust his hips inside Dean's mouth as his fingers tugged sharply in Dean’s hair. Small bursts of pain scattered away and out through his body, finding their way down to Dean's cock that twitched in anticipation, already begging for more. Tearing himself from Cas, Dean looked up at him as he adjusted his position in the sand. He licked his lips, savoring the taste of the angel.“I appreciate the choice of sand, Cas.”

Cas grinned. “That was just coincidence but soft sand is objectively better than pebbles, or sharp shells. Now, continue to appreciate my cock.”

Dean got up from the ground, a confident smile playing on his lips. “I have something else in mind. Grab the vial.” He led Cas to a palm tree, where he pressed himself into Cas. They fit together, like the blue ocean horizon blending seamlessly with the sky until you couldn't tell one apart from the other. Dean wasn't really interested in contemplating what that said about him thinking he'd belong together with an angel, let alone the angel of Death. Naomi would've called it hubris but she didn't know the truths Dean did. He bent down and latched onto Cas' nipple, sucking until the nub was hard as a rock. He wondered if every angel would enjoy such a sensation.

It was as if Castiel sensed the direction of his thoughts. A hand speared into his hair, the sharp tug bringing his attention back to the present. “Eyes and mind on me.” 

A jolt of pleasure went through Dean as he glanced up. Castiel arched his wings up framing himself with a crown of black feathers, his eyes harsh and cold like the winds of winter. He was a God demanding obedience and reverence; his voice a whisper of command that wrapped around Dean, making him heady. In the beginning, his suspicions had been on Cas, on him using his angelic powers to influence him but Dean soon realized it was nothing about magical powers and all about him enjoying the notion of being ruled by Cas. He pulled off slowly, Cas' nipple still between his teeth. Cas hissed but Dean ignored the sound and kept pulling until his teeth slid off. “Don't worry, Cas. You are making it very hard not to have you on my mind.”

Castiel nodded as his hand reached out, grabbing Dean's heavy cock. “That's not the only thing that's hard.” He sounded pleased as he stroked Dean with confidence, playing him skillfully like he was an instrument he'd had a lifetime of practice with. 

Dean briefly shut his eyes, letting himself enjoy the sensations Cas evoked in him. His toes curled in the sand and he grabbed hold of Cas' waist as he leaned his head on his chest. “I wouldn't expect anything less. You are divine, Cas.”

“Deathly, not divine, but I appreciate your sentiment.” Castiel squeezed the head of Dean's cock hard, causing him to moan as he experienced the glorious mixture of pain and pleasure. 

“Well, with age comes certain difficulties. Much honor to me for still making you hard as a rock,” Dean mumbled. He sighed against warm skin, his hands trailing up and down Cas' sides in a soothing gesture. He wasn't sure if that was a movement encouraging Cas to continue or a desperate attempt to hold on as the angel gripped his cock harder. Dean's fire was slowly being stoked, and he couldn't tell if his skin was burning due to the soft caresses of the sun on him or if each touch from Cas singed his skin with desire. Maybe it was both.

“I'm an angel, I don't have that problem.” Castiel chuckled and reached around Dean. His hand was hexed with the most wicked of intentions but as Dean felt the familiar finger stroking his ass crack his eyes flashed open. He cursed himself for falling under the lure of the angel again. 

Dean grabbed Cas' wrist as he shook his head. “I meant what I said about using you.” 

Cas narrowed his eyes as he flared out his black wings blocking out the sun. The wings surrounded them, a dark, sinister halo and Dean could almost feel a wave of compulsion wash over him, coaxing alive the need to please, listen and obey. 

The grip on Cas' wrist tightened. “Cas, you can puff up like a rooster all you want, and I won't lie, it's hotter than the sun, but this time it won't work.”

Cas' voice was deadly smooth. “Did you just compare the angel of Death to a rooster?”

There was humor in Dean's voice although he tried to compose himself. “Yes, and if you don't behave I'll pluck you like a hen.”

“Will you now?”

“Yes. And I'm terrible at that, so turn the fuck around.”

Cas shook his head. “I can't turn around while you're still holding me, can I?”

Dean let go of Cas. He had no illusion of his strength in comparison to the angel of Death, but it was enough that Cas did as he was told. Dean gave his cock a few strokes as Cas repositioned himself against the tree, his hands clasping around the bark. 

Castiel turned around, his gaze pinned at Dean as he arched his back. “You want me to leave my wings out?”

Dean's attention flickered to the dark wings, how the sunlight caused flashes of blue to dance over the feathers. “Keep them out.” Not that he really needed a reminder of what Cas was, but his wings were too beautiful to be kept hidden, a true testament of magnificence. Dean knew who Cas was and he accepted all parts of him. 

Taking a step forward, Dean was flush against Cas' warm body. Softly, he let a hand roam carefully over the feathers closest to Cas' shoulder blades. He could feel Cas relax against him in how the muscles lost tension and in how he sighed softly. As Dean continued to caress the wings, Cas pushed himself back towards Dean, urging him on. 

“So eager you are, Cas,” Dean spoke as he let a hand trail up in Cas' dark, thick hair. He knew if their positions were reversed he'd been on the receiving end of hard pulls and harder thrusts. Just the thought made his already hard cock twitch in agreement, but this was about Cas, not him. The gift Dean could give him was one of attention, soft caresses, and love.

“You have taught me to appreciate life, Dean. That would make anyone eager.”

“You are sweet-talking me just as Garth did when he asked Bess out for the summer harvest dance. You are sure this isn't you appreciating me giving you a nice orgasm, Cas? It's alright to say I'm special.”

Castiel chuckled. “I bet Garth was a good dancer. And I'm a greedy creature, I can appreciate life and still desire release. Oh, by the way, Dean, you forgot something.” He snapped his fingers and the small vial with oil appeared by his feet.

Dean grabbed the vial, pulled the cork out and poured a generous amount on his cock. He spread the oil all over, caressing his balls slowly before paying attention to his swollen red head. As he exhaled, he drank in the sight of Cas before him. “I can't wait to get inside of you, Cas.” 

“I'm waiting too, Dean,” Cas smirked.

For a second, Dean thought about holding off, making Cas beg for it but that wasn't really in his nature but he could still tease him. He tossed the empty vial in the sand. When Dean was finally in a position to do as he desired, he was not going to deprive himself or Cas of any pleasure. “Wait no longer.” Holding his cock at the entrance of Cas' hole, Dean anticipated for his angel's body to betray its needs and wants and he got it when Cas pressed himself against his aching cock. Dean slowly pushed inside at that silent invitation, reveling in how perfectly they fit together. There was something almost blasphemous about how Dean inched his cock inside Cas – a fucking angel – until he bottomed out. Cas was perfect. 

He didn't realize he'd voiced the thought out loud until Cas replied between sighs. “No one is perfect, Dean but I come close.”

“Right now you feel very perfect, Cas.” The tight heat of the angel and how he felt around Dean's cock was almost too much and Dean grabbed Cas' hips to steady himself.

Cas chuckled as he grabbed his own cock with a hand, stroking languidly.

Dean started moving his hips, thrusting in and out of him. It was a slow pace but Cas grabbed a strong hold of the tree anyway. “You feel so good around my cock, Cas.” Dean tightened his grip on Cas' hips, his fingers digging into flesh. Cas was tight and warm around him but warmer still was the flush of arousal coursing through Dean's body. 

Cas' arm was moving faster as he stroked himself. Dean was not sure if he enjoyed the fact that his cock was in Cas' ass or the knowledge that Cas' hand pleasured himself more and that uncertainty was driving Dean's lust even higher. The sight made Dean's balls twitch with want. Even Cas' wings moved slowly with excitement. 

Castiel's breath was shallow as he rocked his hips in time with Dean's thrusts. “Mm, right there, Dean, that's it. You feel so good.” His praise was a warm snake spiraling rapidly – like an arrow finding true aim – lodging itself deep in Dean's heart.

Dean's only response was a moan; his heart threatening to beat through his chest. He was so close, his balls tightening in warning of his impending release. The sunlight danced over Cas' wings and Dean slowed down his thrusts as his hands stroked Cas' lower back, slowly moving upwards until warm skin turned to feathers of the darkest black. “You're extraordinary, Cas.” His hands went higher until his fingers danced over the articulated arches of Cas' wings. “Cas, can I – “ The question was on the tip of Dean's tongue, but Cas was faster.

“Yes, Dean, yes. I know your mind, you have my permission.” It was a breathless litany of consent that went straight to Dean's balls.

“Fuck, Cas, yes, yes...” Dean's reply wasn't nearly as eloquent but he was sure the sentiment of his wishes came across anyway. Grabbing the arches of Cas's black wings with resolve, Dean tightened his hold as he plunged in and out of Cas' ass. He pulled out almost all the way, before burying himself to the hilt. The sensations were overwhelming when Cas clenched around his cock. The angel arched his wings back infinitesimally, allowing for better leverage and Dean used the angle to drive home deeper, hitting that spot that made Cas cry out in desperate need.

Dean could hear him stroking his cock with fervor and then Cas turned to the side, speaking with a voice husky from desire. “Be a good boy and make me come, Dean.”

It was a thinly veiled order, one that sent the burning fires crescendoing higher until Dean was on the precipice of eruption. It was all the encouragement he needed to increase the speed of his thrusts. 

A small rivulet of sweat slowly meandered down Cas's spine, whereas Dean was covered in it. The whole world narrowed down to a constricting point where thoughts were void, breathing was a luxury and sensations were sharp and crisp. Dean's balls tightened as his cock pushed deep inside one last time before the incoming explosion that gripped his whole body in a vice. He emptied himself inside Cas, ropes of come spurting as he cried out. Shortly thereafter deep grunts mingled with his own, as Cas came with him.

Pulling out, Dean sank down in the sound, his muscles limp and mind clear as he tried to calm his breathing. From the corner of his eye, he saw Cas stretch out his wings one last time before they vanished. As Cas joined him, opting to sit down too, Dean grabbed his hand, kissing his knuckles.

“Did I blow your mind as good as I blew your cock, Cas?”

Castiel closed his eyes as he shook his head.

“What?” Dean laughed as he let go of Cas' hand. “It's an honest question.” 

“It was a – “

Dean put up a finger in warning. “I swear Cas, if you say adequate...”

Castiel shot Dean a warning that said all he needed to know about the angel's thoughts of being interrupted. “As I was about to say, it was astonishing.”

“Right about that, Cas.” Dean grinned. 

Grains of sand, a multitude too vast to count, clung to Dean's body. A cool breeze smoothed out the worst edges of the heat the sand carried, and although his body flushed warm, it was born out of pleasant exertion.

Castiel arched an eyebrow, giving him a pointed look before his features turned soft. “A dip in the ocean before I take you home?”

A heavy feeling settled in Dean's chest. It wasn't that he didn't miss his mom, Charlie, or even his dad but the thought of going back to his village brought with it all the things he'd managed to stow away to the back of his mind, if just for a precious while. The crops that were inedible, his mom and dad slowly weakening and everyone ignoring the notion that it was happening in front of their eyes because Naomi promised something better. Promises didn't feed hungry bellies though.

And although he loved Cas, a sense of betrayal however small, flared up in Dean at the recollection of the conversation they'd had earlier. Dean felt suddenly alone. As he got up, he shook his head. “You can do your angel thing maybe? I don't feel like floating around in the ocean.”

“As you wish.” Castiel nodded and snapped his fingers. The sand fell away from his skin, and his clothing covered him once more. Dean patted his belt and sighed as he noticed the weight of the coin purse. It felt heavy, an unwanted burden and he wanted it gone. He reached out to grab it and toss all the coins away but instead his hand lowered. 

Castiel put a hand on Dean's shoulder. “Are you ready?”

Dean wasn't ready, for any of it, but he nodded anyway. What was it Cas had said about choices? They all lead to death. Well, Dean was not about to sit idly by and let death consume him. He smiled wryly at the thought because in a sense he'd been consumed by Death a long time ago. “As ready as I can be.”

Castiel's wings flared out, his eyes flashing blue. The island was empty again.


	6. Inspiration

Peace was a word Dean rarely used when he thought of his mother and father together but for the last couple of days after John's outburst and revelation, a tentative calm lay over the Winchester household. When Dean woke up on the third day the sun was already high in the air. Quickly, Dean dressed in loose pants and a soft tunic, the color of pale moss before clasping a belt around his waist. The black coin purse was on the small table beside the bed. Hesitation filled him and not for the first time he wanted to leave the purse be but so ingrained was the habit of wearing it, that he felt empty without it. 

_You almost lost your mother_. Dean clicked his tongue. It was the magical thinking of a child finding succor in old tales and talismans to shield them from a reality they found too cold and confusing. Dean was no child but still, he found his breathing flow with more ease as he attached the purse to his belt. 

A clamor came from the kitchen, and Dean raised a surprised eyebrow at finding his mother up and about. “Mom, what are you doing? Shouldn't you rest?”

Mary turned to face her son, her hair tied back with a scarf. She was holding a wilted stem in her hands, he couldn't see what herb it was. “You and your dad are hopeless. Acting like I'm old and withered like this poor plant. My... fall was just me being careless. I should've had more water before venturing out in the sun.” She smiled reassuringly. “I'm fine, Dean.”

“You need any help?” Dean walked up to the small kitchen counter, eyeing the different plants. Lavender, chamomile, clove, ginger and a small pot of honey littered the surface together with a wooden spoon, mortar, and pestle. Glancing at the dead fireplace, Dean walked over and lit up a small fire, gently blowing on the embers until they burned dark red.

“The cauldron with water is over there.” Mary pointed to a spot outside the house. “I'm fine. I figured I'll mix together some ointments today. Anael promised she'd take them and sell them at the market tomorrow. The crops can wait one more day. You can help your father with the woodworking. He seems... different these past few days.”

Dean nodded silently and went outside.

When he was back, Dean placed the cauldron on the small fire burning, making sure it was steady before opening the cupboard. He bent down and opened two small crates at the bottom, pulling away the linen cloths. He picked up a sorry excuse for a potato and a tiny carrot looking more like an orange twig then something edible. It gave way in an uncomfortable manner that a carrot shouldn't, like the cursed vegetable had heard rumors about its demise being softly boiled and had decided to start the process in advance.

He tightened his grip on the vegetables, stuffed them in his pocket and closed the door. Mary had his back turned on him, crushing something with the mortar. Dean walked on soft feet, startling his mother when he wrapped his arms around her, pressing a kiss to her soft cheek. “Love you, mom, I'm glad you're feeling better.” She turned and the smile that greeted him was honest and bright and it brought him comfort. Ease was wrapped around her and it made her shine, polishing away all the worry that he realized she'd harbored without telling a soul.

Dean clenched his jaw as resolve filled him. Letting out a soft sigh, he hugged her one more time. “I'll go help dad. Call out if you need me.”

⸙

The sun was still merciful as he walked the trodden path to the old tree stump where he had seen his father. He knew that John had seen him; it was an open field, the sparse trees and long, flowing grass billowing in the wind, were not thick enough to hide strangers. Dean smiled wistfully at that because his father seemed to be a stranger. There was no greeting, or his dad raising his head to acknowledge him but those were unnecessary signs when the tension in his father's shoulders and the slowing of the knife as he carved a wooden paddle were all the clues Dean needed.

“Metatron's been at it again?”

His father looked up, mumbled something in greeting but Dean could see that his father was pleased that Dean recognized who it was for. His shoulders slumped down as he relaxed somewhat. 

“You saw that?”

Dean couldn't help but laugh. “Only Metatron would insist on the handle having an engraved 'M', or a wooden paddle that size.” He sat down on the ground, next to his father.

John nodded slowly as he flicked away a small wood chip. Satisfied with the final shape, he placed the knife on a cloth on the ground and grabbed a pumice stone, working over the paddle. “There's a stone for you too. You can go over the other one.”

Narrowing his eyes, Dean realized there was an identical one lying in the grass. He picked up the paddle and started working it over with the stone, now and then rubbing a thumb over it to assess its smoothness. He could feel his father's eyes on him, burning with questions. It had been months since Dean had felt any compulsion to do wood-working but with what was to come, Dean was not going to remind his father about his confessions regarding Sam. When he was satisfied, he handed over the paddle to John, who took it and eyed it before putting it down.

“I see you still haven't lost your touch. You're talented, son.”

“I don't know about talent, more an effort to escape eventual scolding from Metatron. If he wasn't so fanatical about his craft he would've spat in the pies of people he deemed had slighted him. Angels and all be damned.”

His dad chuckled as he continued to work the other paddle with the pumice stone. “I wouldn't hold it against him. And most people seem to think they are in the wrong even when the evidence is right before them. He also seems to think angels have bestowed him with a most important task; that tends to make people stubborn.”

_Or foolish_. Dean didn't voice that thought out loud. “Pie is delicious, so he is right.” He cleared his throat, steeling himself for what he was going to say next. Dean had already decided on the course of action regardless of the outcome from this conversation, and where he would once have felt heavy stones of dread in his gut to breach the subject, he was now eager to let it spill forth, so he could move on. 

John hummed as he touched the paddle with his hand. Seemingly pleased with the result, he put away the second paddle.

“I can oil those and bring them to Metatron. Mom needs me to bring some goods to Anael for tomorrow anyway.”

“As long as you wrap them up carefully. Otherwise, you'll not hear the end of it. The dust-covered stool happened three years ago, and I'm still receiving an earful about it whenever Metatron sees me.”

Dean wiped off some sawdust from his tunic before extracting the potato and carrot from his pocket. He nodded slightly at the questioning look his father gave him but John took the vegetables anyway. 

A frown creased his father's forehead, disgust a fleeting mask before he dropped the carrot to the ground. He turned the potato around as if the rotation would yield another, more healthy vegetable. “What am I supposed to do with this? I doubt the pigs would eat it.” He tossed the potato on the ground and wiped his hand off on his pants.

“That's from yesterday's harvest.” Dean forced his voice to stay indifferent. He knew his father well enough to know that anger would not suit his needs at this moment. 

His dad arched an eyebrow but Dean could see the disbelief in his father's face. “I doubt that. Your mother has made a mistake. Probably a leftover potato from weeks ago.”

“I looked in the crates. All of them are like this. The carrots are softer than fresh horseshit, the wolf's bane has practically engulfed the fields and food will get more scarce if this keeps up.”

John scoffed. “It's just a bad year. That's bound to happen with regular occurrence. Naomi is holding a prayer circle with offerings to the angels tomorrow. They have no reason to revoke their blessings, I say.” 

Dean caught the furtive glance his dad directed at him. Sudden irritation flared up inside him. “Just say it.”

Picking up the paddles from the ground, John brushed off some dust and grass and he kept brushing although the paddles were clean, the motion shielding him from whatever he was hesitant to utter.

“I think the paddles are clean now.”

“There has been some... talking.” His father's voice sounded firm. “About you.”

Shaking his head slightly, Dean tried not to roll his eyes. Of course, there was talk about him. Milkmaids, farmers, and cobblers had nothing better to do than gossip about Dean Winchester and how different he was. He'd heard some of the talk but that had been spoken more in jealous reverence than anything malicious and he refused to believe that the whole village held him in low regard.

“What has this to do with the angels and Naomi?”

His dad cleared his throat before continuing. “They blame you. Your... excursions to the Edge and beyond. They claim this is a punishment. They say you've brought this curse upon us. And the angels are 'executing divine retribution' was Naomi's exact words.”

“Clear fucking eyes. And they believe her? Do you believe her?”

John spat on the ground. “Do I believe that the angels think you are so important as to punish all of us for you being thick-headed and not listening to the knowledge of better folks? No. But others are listening to Naomi. I think it'd be best if you kept your head down for some time. You can still help your mother with the crops, not many villagers there besides the farmers but maybe stay away from more public areas. I'll talk to Naomi, make her see reason.”

Dean took a few calming breaths. This wasn't his dad's fault. Naomi was merely channeling people's fears, and with the crops getting increasingly worse he couldn't blame that people were seeking someone to blame. True, he hadn't been the most obedient child but to think that people he had – if not called friends but at least had some connection to – thought he was so irredeemable that the angels themselves would curse him? He was surprised that it hurt. Dean clenched his teeth and forced down a bitter laugh. 

If his dad didn't think he was crazy and cursed he'd surely nurse that belief after what Dean had to say. “I'm going beyond the Edge. I'll gather seeds, fruits, whatever that won't fucking kill us, and bring it back here. I understand that you are trying to... protect me, but I can take care of myself. And I'd think the choice between starvation and poisoning would be an easy one to make.”

He could see his father on the verge of objecting but as John opened his mouth a soft sound of mirth escaped him instead. Soon his whole frame shook as that sound morphed into deeper laughter. Finally, John calmed himself down, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Of course you will, Dean.”

Dean waited for something more but when it was apparent that John had nothing more to say on the matter, he asked questioningly, “That's it? You're just fine with this?”

There was a hint of steel when John replied. “I'm not fine with this, fucking far from it. But I'm not stupid either.”

“Sometimes though – “

“Don't push your luck, Dean.” 

Dean snorted, shaking his head.

“As I said, your old man isn't stupid. I know that your mother didn't just fall.” He grimaced as if the admission that his wife had been hurt due to anything other than clumsiness hurt him on a profound level. “I've noticed that the meals have been getting smaller, the soups more watery, the porridge blander. I guess it was a truth that took some time to admit.” He looked at Dean with something akin to regret in his eyes. ”It seems you're not the only one that is thick-headed. Must be a Winchester trait.”

“Must be. So – “

John got up and handed the paddles to Dean, a strange look in his eyes. “I guess it's time to let you go. You're not a kid anymore.”

“Stopped being one a long time ago.” He looked away briefly, taking note of how the wind gently swayed the high grass back and forth. “How much for the paddles?”

“No less than four pieces of the hard bread and one loaf of sourdough, and if he tries to weasel his way out of that, three of the largest loaves of bread that you get to choose personally.”

“I'll take care of it.” Just before leaving, Dean stopped and looked back at his father. His beard was speckled with gray, his gaze full of clarity despite the creases around his eyes and although his frame was still large and solid, wrinkles on his arms told the story of youth mostly swallowed up by the inevitability of age. A sudden urge to tell his dad that he loved him washed over Dean. 

”Dad...”

His father looked up from the work he was concentrated on, surprise on his face. “You still here?”

“Yeah. Just wanted to...” Dean cleared his throat. “You know I love you, right?”

John looked like an owl, his eyes huge and his gaze everywhere but on Dean. Finally, they settled on his son's face and an uncertain twitch plagued his lips until it slowly turned into a smile.“Love you too, son.”

⸙

Anael's house was surrounded by trees on the left side while different kinds of bushes flanked the remaining three. Dean recognized raspberries and blackberries, while elderberries grew close by. Dandelions, yarrow, and plantain poked up in between patches of grass reaching for the sun; the healer allowed nature to grow freely without hindrance of any kind. He knew from his mother that Anael also had a huge garden in the back where she cultivated medicinal plants.

Adjusting his pouch with Mary's ointments, he knocked on the wooden door and tried not to shuffle his feet while he waited. Was she one of the villagers who thought he was cursed? He had at least not claimed to heal all kinds of sickness with weed. How come her failures were not seen as curses?

The door creaked and brought him out of his sullen pondering. Anael's auburn hair was tied back but some tresses had escaped, framing a face that he would've thought was pretty, if she hadn't been the village healer or old enough to be his mother. She was pretty though, the way a thistle was pretty. He noticed her apron covered in black and blue blotches and the same mottled smudges painted her hands and arms. 

“I didn't mean to disturb. My mother, she had some ointments for you.”

Anael smiled, seemingly not in the slightest surprised by his appearance. “Dean, it's so good to see you. I haven't really had the opportunity to talk with you for quite some time and during prayer, you seem reserved.” She took a step back, inviting him in.

“I'm not much for small talk.” Dean had not planned on prolonging his stay, he still had to deal with Metatron. He reached into his pouch and grabbed the ointments, offering them to Anael at arm's length, more to shield himself from her proximity than from any real eagerness to be of service.

Anael turned and started talking as she wiped her hands and arms on the apron. “Clean life, that is wise. If people would be silent when not speaking words of wisdom, the world would be in a much better state. But I'm afraid the angels haven't blessed many of us with these traits. Ale?”

She offered him a leather mug. When Dean shook his head, she shrugged and took a sip of her own before putting the mug down. “Your loss, the brew was finished yesterday. Please, put the ointments on the table. Your mother's clove is one of the finest I've come across. It will fetch a nice coin during the market tomorrow.”

“Thanks...” Dean put the ointments on the table and crossed his arms. “Well, I have some more errands to run. Metatron.”

The healer nodded and smiled as if Dean's last word was explanation enough. “Anything else on your mind? The blackberries won't turn into mush by themselves but I'm here to aid in the healing of both physical and mental ailments if you need any.” She looked at him intently. “And if the healing doesn't do you any good, you can always drown your sorrows.” She nodded towards the ale.

The words flowed from his lips, instinctual and without a second thought. “Do people ever doubt you? How do you even know that what you're doing is working, that you're on the right path?” He sighed. “And please don't mention the word faith.”

“You have to have faith, Dean.” Anael smiled as if she had said something witty and turned her attention to the bowl of blackberries again. 

Dean rolled his eyes. “Faith doesn't feed the hungry.” _Neither does wood-working_.

“True. But faith gives you guidance and courage to take the plunge, to dare the next step. And that next step may be the crucial one, the one that changes everything.” She took some small leaves and crushed them with a mortar before mixing them together with the blackberries.

“And what is that next step?”

“You show them, you show people what you are capable of. The conviction and truth of your words coupled with your actions will cleanse any doubt from people's minds.” As an afterthought, she added, “And even those who are not convinced of the validity of my work, do end up here when their doubts finally give way to fear of the greater unknown. I do not claim to heal everyone – I'm just a vessel for the angels' guidance – but those I do heal are living testament to my powers. We all have choices we make, Dean and they all lead to one destination in the end. But those steps on the way, whichever ones you take, are for you to decide, and they will announce to the world who you are.”

Dean paused, digesting her words before speaking. It sounded all too similar to what Cas had said earlier. “So, is this you showing them, by making some kind of blackberry medicine?”

“This?” Anael arched an eyebrow. “This is me showing you the humble beginnings of a blackberry pie.”

“Oh... I love pie.”

Anael picked up another bowl with dough and emptied it on the counter. “The bushes have not borne as many blackberries as they used too. The good ones I've used in my medicine while preserving the few that were left. These are the ugly, mushed ones, but even they can make a good treat.” Kneading the dough, she looked up at Dean. “But you already know that the crops are failing.”

Dean narrowed his eyes, anger flaring up. “I have nothing to – “

“Easy, Dean. I don't partake in gossip. The angel Suriel has worked through me for years and I've known you since you were still hanging on your mother's teat.”

“Great. I'm glad to hear... uh, that.”

Satisfied with the consistency of the dough, Anael started shaping it into small squares. “Give your mother my best wishes and thank her for the ointments.” She looked up. “I wish you all the best and if you find what you are looking for, I'll be the first to use them.”

⸙

The bakery was situated on the opposite side of the village, away from other houses due to the increased fire hazard and knowing Metatron, Dean doubted he objected to the isolation. He walked by the cobbler's house – Inias sat outside on a stool sewing in a piece of leather – who greeted him with a friendly smile, and as he passed Anna carrying a basket with clothes – probably heading to the river to wash them – she waved.

Some of the villagers were not so friendly. He passed by some children – who recognized him and scattered erratically like dandelion puffs caught in the wind – screaming at the top of their lungs. Some of the adults were more subtle. Ishim just glared at him and spat on the ground while Arthur Ketch, the older of the two brothers, tightened his hold on the small pickaxe as he was working a tiny patch of land – his cabbages resembling withered rutabagas – next to his house. The back of Dean's neck prickled in warning as he walked by, and he could almost feel the forceful impact as the head of the pickaxe embed itself deep into his spine. Looking back, Arthur was once again bent over the dark earth, but that didn't stop him from glaring one last time.

Sighing in a futile attempt to dispel the deep unease that nonetheless still lingered inside him, Dean finally arrived at the bakery. He looked around at the grass and the multitude of bushes; although nothing seemed out of the ordinary at first glance, Dean noticed the thyme bowing down, a yellow-colored tint to the spice, where it usually would be a bright green color. Metatron prized his herbs and spices almost to the same fervent degree as his bread. He took another step, bent down and inhaled the scent from a cluster of basil. It smelled pungent and wrong.

Reaching for his black coin purse he touched it, calloused hands over soft leather. At least something was as it should be. Dean knocked on the door and soon a shout was heard from inside.

“Come in!”

Dean walked inside and smiled at the comforting scent of bread assaulting him. Metatron was poking a peel deeper into the oven, only to pull it back out again. A round piece of bread, with a warm, golden crust greeted him but as Metatron turned to face him, his semi-smile morphed into a scowl. 

After sliding the peel onto a stone counter, Metatron put it away, wiping his hands on an apron. Short, curly black hair, peppered with gray stood out like a crown against his face and the scowl deepened the wrinkles on his forehead. He scratched his beard as he approached Dean, short of stature but making it up with a prickly attitude.

“So if it isn't Dean Winchester? Haven't seen you in ages. Where's your father? ” He tried to peek around Dean as if he expected John to show up and looked rather disappointed when he didn't find him.

Dean clicked his tongue, not trying to show his annoyance. “It's me. Dad had other things to attend to. I brought your paddles.” He pulled them out, and Metatron took them, doubt plastered on his face.

“It's a peel, boy, not a paddle.” He turned them this way and that, hands roaming over the wood. “You did this?”

Dean shook his head no. “I did the – “

“I could tell. Your dad is a master, been happy with his work for years. Smooth, seamless work. Look at the sheen. He must have oiled the wood with love.”

Dean scoffed. _Oiled with love_. The only wood Dean wanted to oil with love was certainly not Metatron's. The thought of Cas made his head pound, frustration forgotten now rising up. He really needed to talk to Cas after this. 

“Sure. It was all John.”

When he noticed that Metatron was still touching the peels, talking to himself he cleared his throat.

Metatron looked at Dean. “You still here?” His eyes narrowed. “I'm not baking any pies today. Roman's pies are soon done, but he paid good coin to use the oven. Not that that would stop you. I know you, with your pilfering fingers, stealing my pies, ruining my raspberries and tarts.”

“That happened over a decade ago, I was just a child, Metatron. I ain't here to steal any pies.”

“They all say that.” Metatron peeked in the oven. 

Dean crossed his arms in an attempt to stop his hands from strangling Metatron.“Payment? Those overgrown wooden spoons didn't carve themselves. And what's with your herbs? You're usually very... protective of them.”

Metatron put the peels down. “How very observant of you, Dean.” Herbs are what make the bread. Surprised you know that much. As for your question, I don't know what's wrong. You think a prized baker like myself would be satisfied with the herbs looking like that?” Metatron's eyebrows climbed up high in upset at the mere insinuation. “And if the only fault was them being more dry than usual I'd sing the angels' praises but unfortunately it's more than that. The basil is bitter, and my thyme tastes like bark. They don't grow properly. And don't give me that look, I'll give you payment. Any baker worth his dough and salt honors his debts.” 

“Four pieces of hard bread, John said, a loaf of sourdough and two honey buns.”

Shuffling over to a basket covered with a cloth, Metatron grabbed four pieces of the hard bread. Dean followed him but apparently crossed some kind of invisible border because Metatron all but shoved him back. “No further back than here. My book is for my eyes only. I got enough with the king hounding me for decent bread while trying to keep this village feed without you trying to steal my recipes.”

Dean spoke softly as not to rile Metatron even more. His temper seemed pricklier than usual. “Can I take a look at the bread?”

“No,” Metatron said sullenly. “It's hard bread. This bread is hard, you are perfectly fine to observe that from over there.” He wrapped up the pieces and handed them to Dean. “I've enough problems with keeping good bread for me. Feed king and people. Now you try to steal my book of recipes. Not that you'd be able to read it.” He glared at Dean. “It's written in code.”

Dean saw through Metatron's gnarly old man speech. “It's that bad?”

Metatron shoved a package in Dean's arms. “If something, anything, about the crops doesn't change for the better, soon I'll be forced to put something _extra_ in the village bread.” He glanced at the wrapped up bundle in Dean's arms. “Half a loaf of sourdough. No honey buns, but something else for you. Now, get lost. I was almost ready to nap when you barged in.”

⸙

As Dean headed back home, both Ishim and Arthur were elsewhere which suited him fine. A feeling of anger had simmered inside him all day but with meeting Anael and Metatron that quiet fury had melted away, only to leave a heavy ball of dread and worry in his gut. He'd known something was wrong, and apparently, some of the other villagers saw it too. Most of them would rather just shove their own heads up their asses then actually do something, or listen to someone who might know better.

Dean left the houses behind him and took another path back home, one that was longer but cut through tall grass and meadow flowers instead. He craved solitude at the moment, and time to gather his thoughts about the upcoming preparations he needed to take care of. Dean could almost picture himself roaming through the grass as a child, not having a care in the world until Sam was lost. The black purse thrummed against his hip as he walked with confident strides.

The laws of the universe seemed intricate, that much had been clear when Cas talked about these matters with Dean. Cas was an angel. An angel that he loved and cared for and one that could also drive him mad with lust. Right now that love was devoid of any lust whatsoever, and he harbored anger aimed at everything. Dean changed his hold on the bread and opened up the wrapped package. It brought a smile to his lips. A small raspberry tart greeted him. Dean took a bite and grimaced as he swallowed. The tartness of the raspberries was more like a slap in the face than a soft caress on the cheek and the aftertaste was one he didn't quite have words for. 

Looking out over the meadows, he swept a hand over the grass as he walked. Sam would have loved to run through the grass. Dean would have shown him all the best places in the village, taught him how to be silent as a cat during their late-night talks as not to incur his father's wrath and be the rock Sammy needed as an older brother. That thought stopped his daydreaming. 

Cas was wrong. In what world was Sam dying a good thing? He had been a baby, and died for what? His death had robbed Dean of a decent childhood, smothered his mother's happiness and turned his father into an angry man. Castiel was the angel of Death. How could he have taken a young child from his family? Dean had loved Sam with all the deep sincerity and overflowing passion only a child could love someone with and Sam was dead. Cas had chosen to hide behind flourished talk about the universe, cosmic laws, and choices. Dean grabbed a stalk and pulled at it so violently it came off, root and all. He tossed it away. And now Cas was hiding again behind words that chained him to inaction, coated under a thin veneer of choices and free will. Well, fuck that and fuck Cas.

A gentle rumble traveled across the sky and Dean looked up in surprise as the first raindrops hit his face. He'd been so preoccupied with his anger that he'd failed to notice the sky turning darker, a soft gray blanket covering the once blue skies. Just when his day couldn't get any shittier the angels decided to add a fresh pile of muck on top of it. Dean increased his speed; he'd rather have bread in his arms when he returned home instead of soft mush.

Something hit him in the head with enough force that he winced, before landing with a thud on the ground in front of him. Dean peered down and swore under his breath at the small, dead body of a bird. Soon after, he shivered as a rush of coldness erupted from his shoulder blades, and the steadily increasing rainfall had nothing to do with the sudden chill that enveloped him.


	7. Accusation

Castiel had his hood up as Dean turned to face the angel, his wings tucked behind his back. The rain was now pouring down, a welcoming offer that the earth received in silent gratitude. At the back of Dean's mind, he hoped not too much water would come of this, drowning the already meager crops. Cas quirked his lips into a smile and without a word, flared out one huge black wing, shielding Dean from the rain. “Hello, Dean.” He touched Dean on the arm briefly, and the wet tunic plastered here and there to his skin, turned dry again.

The sharp edges of Dean's anger smoothed out as he was confronted by Cas' actions. It was hard to utter words of ire when Cas was being so kind to him. Yet, with the fresh memory of both Anael's and Metatron's conversation, his anger was not altogether obliterated.

“Hi.” He tried to sound as he always did but he could see Cas narrow his eyes in suspicion as he took a step closer towards him.

“Is something wrong, Dean?” He reached out to touch him and Dean took an inadvertent step back.

Inwardly, Dean chastised himself about his apparent lack of finesse around Cas. The angel of Death was a commanding presence and Dean reminded himself of the fact Cas couldn't – wouldn't – read his mind or use his powers in any way to coerce him. His worry about Cas finding out the real reason for his emotions was laughable when Dean was already on the verge of delivering some truths. Shame filled him suddenly. Dean loved Cas and knew the angel felt the same for him; to even think that Cas would break his trust and his love by using his powers in the way Dean had imagined – it left a foul taste in his mouth.

He took another bite of the raspberry tart as a distraction, almost shuddering as the tartness hit him. It would have been divine if it wasn't sourer than the blackcurrant preserve he'd forced himself to swallow down as a means of support when Charlie had been in the midst of an argument with her mother over whose preserve was the better one. He remembered the feeling of his very toes bending over backwards in an attempt to escape the acidity that seemed to have permeated his body.

Swallowing hard, he threw his hands up in a questioning gesture.“Why would something be wrong, Cas?” He could feel the tart flap and turn noticeably lighter in his hand, as some fell on the ground. Dean sighed. He'd really wanted to eat all of that tart. Shoving the last, remaining piece in his mouth, he shrugged. 

“I can sense a disturbance in you. You are certain that everything is as normal?” Cas narrowed his eyes even more, and Dean shook his head. 

If Cas kept that up, he'd practically be closing his eyes. The persistence of the question, Cas' demeanor and that he suddenly cared – which Dean knew deep down was an unjust accusation – irked him.

“Alright, something is wrong. You are wrong, Cas. Everything is wrong.” Dean pointed an accusatory finger at Cas, and when Castiel remained silent, Dean continued. “You talk about free will and choices like it's something that doesn't have consequences. Well, it does have consequences and you can help. What was the choice of Sammy who died as a baby, where was the free will in that? You knew what was in his book, right?”

“There was some shifting changes – a few variables not set in stone – but that he would die around that time was inevitable, yes.” Dean noticed Cas' measured tone which only infuriated him further.

“Well, what was his fucking choice? Tell me what choice a baby has?!” Dean realized he was shouting, but as he looked around he found himself and Cas still alone. It wouldn't come as a surprise if Cas had waved his fingers and shielded them in that vortex of his.

The angel of Death flared out his black wings to their fullest, and the rain seemed to divide itself into tiny droplets, attaching itself to the feathers like small gemstones. The rays of the sun that had peered out from the clouds, hitting the water drops just right, created a kaleidoscope of colors as Castiel shifted slightly. Dean noticed that he was still dry. No reason questioning angel magic. He would take a dry tunic over a wet one, any day.

The more Dean raised his voice, the calmer Cas became. “Even the more unassuming but truly impactful choices of others are approved by the specific soul but only some, not all consequences are set in stone. In your brother's case, they were.” His voice was calm and careful.

“So what are you saying Cas, that Sam brought this on himself?”

Castiel sighed, frustration evident in his tone. “I'm explaining to you that the choices your parents made had consequences. With a multitude of those choices each and every day, it would be impossible for a human to fully grasp the true repercussions of each one. When your father ignored that small voice in his heart to leave Sam with his mother, that was a choice. When your father went to this friend's house instead of any other friend's house, that was a choice. When that friend failed to mention the sickness his daughter had – something of no harm to a child – but potentially fatal to a baby, that was a choice. When that father took his daughter to the market where she caught the sickness, that was a choice.” Cas' eyebrows were drawn in sympathy even though his words seemed harsh. “The choices are always there, Dean, even though the consequences are not obvious.”

“That's not fair.” Dean knew he sounded like a child, but couldn't help the honest response.

Castiel let the words hang in the air. “Life is not fair, but it is balanced. Humans die because of their own choices, Dean. Not because I chose it. I collect souls, I don't condemn them, nor do I facilitate the means of their death.” He paused briefly before continuing. “But I do understand the human need to shift blame onto something else. That's hardly a new concept.”

Dean could feel a gentle touch on his shoulder. “I'm truly sorry that you lost your brother at such a young age, Dean. And I recognize the pain that loss caused in your life, then and now.” 

An ache traveled from Dean's heart, up through his chest and settled down in his throat. He tried to form words but that ache just turned heavier. Cas wrapped his arms around him, black wings resting above them; Cas shielded them from the world. For a fleeting moment, Dean wished it could just be him and Cas, embraced like this for eternity.

“I'm not going to just sit by idly and watch when I can do something.” Dean's voice was muffled as he spoke against Castiel's shoulder.

Castiel stepped back but Dean needed the warm embrace of his lover and friend a while longer. He grabbed hold of a feather and tugged. Cas came to him again, a tentative smile on his face, but his ancient eyes held nothing but sympathy. Dean inhaled the scent of Cas as he murmured against his black robe. “If you won't help me with your angel magic I guess I'll have to try and make a difference all on my own.”

“You have always been a precocious soul, Dean. Kind and full of compassion.”

Dean scoffed. “I don't know about that. There's been plenty of times I've thought less than kind things about people. Especially when they all act like idiots.” He looked at Cas. “Angels are included in people.”

Cas quirked his lips. “Is that so?”

“Fuck yeah. But fine. As I said, if you can't help me due to cosmic consequences or some unwritten law, I'll do it myself. When the villagers see the evidence with their own eyes, I'll be fine. And if they won't eat the 'cursed' potatoes and herbs, more for me. Either way, I'll be good.” Dean grinned as another thought struck him. “Maybe you can show yourself. I bet if you did that and commanded them to eat, they'd ask how much instead of being afraid.”

“I have no doubt about that, but my work is done in the shadows.”

Dean bit his lips as he sighed. “Yeah... So, what we talked about earlier.” There was a small pause. “Sammy is still alright? I mean his soul is – 

“His soul is resting for now. He is at peace, Dean.”

“For now? What does that mean?”

Castiel looked away briefly, not in avoidance at Dean's question but rather giving himself pause before offering what Dean surmised was a difficult answer. It shouldn't have been a hard question to answer.

“The soul is not in permanent stasis as energy after death. It will revert to a... denser, active form after a certain time frame.”

Dean had the notion that Cas was being deliberately vague. Suddenly he felt tired to his very bones. “Just tell me Sammy is alright, Cas...”

He could hear Cas let out a soft sigh against his face. “He is well, Dean.” 

The lump in Dean's throat grew lighter as his heart unburdened some of the anger he'd been harboring against Cas, the world, but mostly against himself. “There was nothing I could have – “ He could feel Cas' arms around him tightening.

“You were just a child, Dean. The responsibility of Sam's well-being was not on you. And even with the best of intentions from any parent, sometimes there is nothing else that can be done to prevent a certain outcome. Know this, Sam is proud of you.”

Dean shuddered out a long breath he didn't know he was holding inside and although nothing noticeable had changed about him, he could feel something shift. He felt more at ease, like his lungs could finally expand fully after years of being constricted by guilt and sorrow – feelings he hadn't even been consciously aware of. 

“Look, Cas. I'm sorry that I acted like a dickpouch. You aren't wrong.” He paused, searching for the right words. “I know with you being a giant celestial blackbird, I should be more – um lordly – but sometimes I forget... You fuck like a peasant though, wildly and ferociously, nothing lordly about that.”

“Trust me, Dean. You would be surprised about the erotic adventures of ladies and lords.” 

Dean leaned in even more and kissed Cas on the cheek, savoring the feel of his lips on Cas' skin. Gently, Dean's affections trailed down and he stopped for a brief second, his emerald eyes locked onto the angel's lips. If he was quick enough, Cas wouldn't know what hit him. They had done everything imaginable with their limbs and wings, but Cas had been adamant about not allowing Dean access to his mouth. 

He rushed forward only to tumble into nothingness. Quick reflexes were what saved him from planting his face on the ground and a smashed nose as a consequence. Getting up, he looked around and found Castiel a few steps away from him, his wings hidden, an innocent look on his face.

“Cas, I could've broken my nose!”

“Don't you think that is a dramatic reaction? And it's not like a bloody nose will kill you... ” He plucked some strands of grass from his black robe.

Dean looked around for his bread and found it, still neatly wrapped. He picked it up and brushed off some wet grass that clung to the package. “Very funny, Cas. You know something I don't?” He looked at Cas, who suddenly froze.

“Clear fucking eyes, you'd think I was trying to kill you. And don't answer that question, Cas.”

Castiel seemed to compose himself and walked up to Dean, “It's my intention to leave that question unanswered. I can bring you home, more swiftly than a thought.” 

It was a tempting offer but Dean needed to ponder the last details of his planned trip to the Edge and beyond and the rhythmic feel of feet on a road would make a sweet lullaby, soothing the worst of his worries while allowing him to go over everything one more time.

“I appreciate the offer, Cas, but I'll walk this time.”

Castiel nodded. “As you wish.” He grabbed Dean's hand and kissed it. It was a simple gesture of affection but Dean felt a warmth envelop him anyway. Any token of love Cas showered him with – whether that was a gentle caress as they were wrapped in each other's arms or a possessive growl of passion in Dean's ear as Cas was about to come – was a sign of his appreciation for Dean and what they had together.

As Castiel stood tall again, he looked at Dean in silence for a few seconds. It was an intense gaze, so much so that Dean was about to ask if something was wrong until he spoke. “We are amenable now, Dean? I wouldn't want to part on bad terms.”

Dean didn't need any further explanation on what Cas was referring to. “Yeah, we are good.”

Satisfied with the answer, Castiel spread his wings and vanished.

The moment the presence of the angel was gone, the rain hit Dean with full force. Soon his tunic was wet again, plastered to his body in an uncomfortable manner. Cursing under his breath, Dean did his best to tuck the wrapped bread safe and started running. Thoughts about the ordeal tomorrow vanished as he prayed he would reach home before he was a shivering mess. 

⸙  


Dean looked on as Mary adjusted her skirts a third time before gripping the handle of the wicker basket tightly. Tiny bundles of medicinal herbs tied together shared space with a single jar of ointment and a handful of potatoes; it was not much to bring to the market but at least John had a commission for another plow repair. Not that woodworking yielded as much profit in coins as before, but Dean had heard his father express a hope that the wooden utensils he'd carved would fare better on the annual market in Charlestown that was to be held in a less than a fortnight.

The morning was cool, but not cold; the air pleasant with soft, gentle breezes – a sign of temperance – that ruffled Dean's hair as he walked behind his parents. The woods would give shade but nonetheless, the rays of the sun would find their way through the canopy of leaves and Dean knew he'd have to walk quite a bit to find what he was looking for, so any promise of gentler weather was welcomed.

Dean nodded in greeting as the Styne clan joined them on the trodden path towards the house of prayer, and they really were a clan. 

Shelley and Monroe nodded back in acknowledgment – their white hair almost aglow in the sunlight – before catching up to Dean's parents. Dean hadn't seen Shelley Styne for some time and to his eyes, she looked slimmer and more haggard, nothing that caused alarm, but it wasn't her constitution that called for his attention. Both their mouths were set in a thin line, and Shelley looked back at Dean, brow furrowed, a sudden scowl turning her rather attractive features into something cold and ugly, before turning her attention back to her husband.

Dean noticed the sudden shift in his parents; his father clenched a fist but still kept the same pace while his mother's back straightened as she looked back at him with the strangest smile on her face and he realized it was all for Shelley's benefit. Dean debated if he should join them. He'd never been fond of the Styne's. It wasn't something tangible that he could express, but save for one of the brothers, being around them made his skin crawl.

The sons, Jacob, Cyrus, Eli and Roscoe, all studied to be tailors as it was their father's vocation. He'd heard others speak of the oldest of the brothers who most eagerly followed in his father's footsteps – expressing his desire to take leave and travel to Charlestown to open up a tailor shop – but all the sons were on a tight leash, more reigned in than Dean had been as a child. He'd seen Cyrus – the youngest of the sons – take jobs in town when pressing need arose; he surpassed even his father in skill but rumors had been circulating that Cyrus would rather dedicate his time to grow his crops and work as a farmer instead of pursuing the family tradition. Elder Styne had not been pleased.

Just when Dean wondered where the fifth son was, Eldon Styne appeared from the other side. A chill went through him as Eldon approached; it was neither caused by the caress of the wind or a harbinger of Cas' imminent appearance.

Adjusting his tunic again – where on the inside Dean had hidden a small leather sack – a casual hand ghosting over the black purse, he turned his attention to Eldon. Dean straightened his back and took full advantage of that one inch he had over Eldon and remained silent. He chose to look out over the fields instead and the looming houses ahead. A few seconds passed and then Eldon spoke.

“Nice weather today, very fortuitous, wouldn't you say, Dean? It seems the angels are listening after all.”

Dean glanced at Eldon who walked next to him, exuding contentment with every movement of his body. A flush of unease washed over Dean and he had to stop himself from rubbing his arms, where goose flesh slowly pebbled. 

Granted, the village was small and Dean saw the Styne's regularly on market days but luckily both he and his mother knew how to mend the occasional rip and tear on clothes. Once in a while, larger tears needed a more trained hand but for his last visit, Dean had required a new tunic. His mind took him to the time he'd last seen Eldon properly, a few years back.

His mother had been occupied with working the fields and his father had been away so it fell on Dean to take his second tunic to Monroe Styne. It was a visual aid to help model the style of a new tunic while re-purposing the fabric from the used one. Monroe had been in the front of the small tailor shop – needle and thread in hand – patching up someone’s pants.

After a short explanation about his needs, Monroe waved Dean to a small back room. His attention was on the fabric as he spoke. “Wait there. I’m busy but Eldon will help you shortly when he is done with Purah.”

Raising an eyebrow in surprise, Dean looked back at Monroe. “Purah, why is she here?”

Monroe pulled on the needle again, still not paying Dean any attention. “A cut on her arm.”

An anguished, muffled sound, like from a wounded animal came from the door in front of Dean. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Opening the door without thought, he saw Purah strapped down to a chair. She was biting down hard on a stick, her hair and tunic coated in sweat and as she noticed Dean’s presence she arched her entire body upward. Dean’s eyes flew to the ankle straps.

“Fuck, what are you doing, Eldon?!”

Eldon raised an eyebrow. “Greetings, Dean. I’m stitching her up. Purah sustained a rather large gash on her arm that needed my immediate attention. I'm afraid time was of the essence. The usual preparations had to be… omitted.”

As if that explained the matter, Eldon took the needle and slowly pierced Purah’s skin, near the gash. The girl’s eyes rolled back in horror and pain as she convulsed again, before going limp. Eldon pulled the thread taut, readying himself for another stitch when Dean was at his side, a hand on Eldon’s wrist. 

“Angels' mercy, she is just a kid. Where is Anael? She needs numbing ointment, fuck, some ale…” Dean looked at the small gash on the girl’s arm and his stomach rolled in upset, as anger coursed through him. “You don’t need to do anything about – “

Eldon interrupted him, a coldness creeping into his voice.“Her parents were adamant I do something about the condition of her arm.”

“Her parents? Where are her parents then? And what condition, there is no fucking con – “ Dean was done listening to Eldon and bent down to untie the girl. Gingerly, he hoisted her up in his arms as Eldon took another cloth, wiping the needle clean. “Where can I put her down?”

Eldon narrowed his eyes and stood up, brushing off his brown tunic. He pointed to a small corner with a lumpy hay mattress. “Don’t see what the commotion is all about, Dean. I am good with a needle after all.” He smiled. As he moved away the chair, Eldon turned his pale blue eyes at Dean – so foreign from Cas' warmer blue eyes, which exuded life instead of cold detachment. “Now, what can I help you with?”

“You think the villagers will help with the search?” Eldon’s smooth voice brought Dean back to the present.

“Help with what search?” His question came out more harshly than intended but Dean would have spoken a lie if he claimed that bothered him. Eldon had looked at him with displeasure ever since Dean had put a stop to his more sinister form of needlework. Purah had not been the first but she had been the last.

“Oh, you haven’t heard? Can’t blame you, it happened last night.” Eldon smiled, the smooth lilt of his voice at odds with the words that followed next. “The Kline boy has gone missing.”

⸙  


The house of prayer was abuzz with whispers but it wasn't the usual melody that evoked reverence and excitement. For the younger ones, the excitement was reserved for the upcoming stroll through the market more than toward the sermon from the Vision and they didn't notice that this time the whispers formed a song born out of fear. This song was a brewing one, full of dark undercurrents that tried to drag you down when you paid no attention.

Dean buried his reaction of hurt when he noticed that his name was whispered frequently, more often than not in a tone that spoke of mistrust and hostility. Simple wooden benches were creaking as people shifted in their seats. The presence behind him was a burning one, one that had no qualms about speaking his mind about the events that were unfolding. 

“I'm not surprised. Not about the boy, that happens. Little legs that wander astray. Anything can happen when our youngest are not in the safe arms of their mothers.” Eldon spoke above the clamor and disjointed harmonies of the other villagers. Soon a nervous silence settled over the worshipers as they waited for Naomi's arrival. 

Dean clenched his jaw and gripped his tunic tightly before easing off. On his right side, his father turned and glanced back towards Eldon, while his mother found his hand, and gave it a reassuring squeeze before letting it fall back in her lap again. The urge to turn around and face Eldon was overwhelming. Dean decided to distract himself and paid all his attention to the carving in front of him instead.

He remembered being indifferent towards the carving when a child, but now when he was older he appreciated both the wings and the craftsmanship it had taken to bring it to life. The carving had been born in Cain Winchester's hands, carefully sculpted by the prophetic words of a Vision long before Naomi. Vision Dumah had been a fierce woman, small in stature but furious in her preaching of the angels' commands – never _wishes_ for the people – but angelic declarations that were to be followed to the letter. If only the people embraced asceticism as decreed by the holy angels the world in general and the village specifically, would flourish. Everything would be drenched in purity. 

Dean was not sure about the being drenched part. Granted, purity might taste sweeter on the tongue but being drenched in purity, piss, or water would still only end one way. The dead way. 

“It's divine retribution, a punishment from the angels above.” 

Dean knew that nasal voice anywhere. He wasn't surprised that the oily fucker spoke up. Where there were tragedy and rumors, Alistair attached himself, a poisonous leech sucking out all hope from people until all that remained was a shriveled shell of despair. 

“It's not surprising, with what is... happening in the village.” Alistair let the statement hang in the air.

Dean swallowed down his anger and forced his gaze to remain on the carving. It was exquisite, belonging more in the royal palace, or surely a wealthy merchant's home than here among farmers and peasants. The two huge wings arched up and their position was so that they crowned around the Vision as she stood speaking. Dean leaned in and whispered to his father. “Why are we all here? If Jack is out there, how come we – “

His voice was drowned out by the shuffling of feet and rustling of clothes as the villagers rose as one to greet Naomi. She was dressed in black robes as was the custom with one of her stature. She motioned them to kneel as she turned her attention to the people gathered to hear her speak. Dean really wished they'd replace the thin carpet with thicker pillows, but thankfully the part of the actual prayer was short.

She spoke in a low voice, confident that silence would settle. “It's good to see you all again.”

_Not everyone._ He grabbed his black purse, finding comfort in the familiar weight, although what he truly desired right then and there was to turn around and hurl it in Eldon's face to wipe away the smirk he was sure the other man wore. 

After the introductory prayers, Naomi schooled her face – eyes narrowing, face stern and her lips a thin line to give off an air of holy importance – to deliver what Dean knew would be another message from the angels. Either that or she really had to take a shit. Dean's chuckle quietly turned into a cough when he saw her glance at him.

“Clean life. The angels have granted me another vision, a direction to aim our thoughts and actions so that we will continue to be blessed.”

There were murmurs in agreement as the crowd nodded. Dean looked at his mother and father but their faces were impassive. The continued blessings were not something that he could agree with and he had to bite his tongue not to rebuke her. Had they not seen the state of the crops? Where was the blessing in that?

He shuddered as cold gripped him. Turning his face, he saw Castiel leaning against the wall. With worry Dean looked around, expecting someone in the crowd to drop dead. He sighed with relief when it seemed all were accounted for. 

_Direct your attention to me and I will hear you._

Cas' voice was clear in his head, as if he was right next to him, whispering in his ear. Memories flashed through him of other instances when Cas had whispered darker, more arousing things to him. Dean clenched his fist and tried not to scowl. Glancing again at Cas, he could see him smile. _You couldn't have revealed this magic to me earlier? What about the temporal_ – 

Castiel interrupted his projection. _This form of communication works better here._ After a beat of silence, Dean heard his voice again, amusement on the edge of his thoughts. _Pouting doesn't become you, Dean._

Dean crossed his arms._ I'm not pouting. Now please be quiet, I'm trying to concentrate on what Naomi is saying._ It was not something he relished but he hoped she would say something that could guide them or help them with Jack, the crops, anything, even though his doubts far outweighed his hope. 

The service was coming to an end. Dean was just about to voice his concern for Jack when Naomi paused in her speech and clasped her hands in front of her. 

_Are angels really... talking to her? _Dean almost laughed at his own hesitance. He knew their existence to be real without a doubt, but that fact didn't solidify the truth that the Vision herself was having intimate conversations with one. 

_I would have to look directly into her mind to discern that particular mark of brainwaves,_ Castiel mused, more to himself than actually addressing Dean. _Angels will communicate with humans now and then but it's an exceedingly rare occurrence. Usually, there is a profound... bond that needs to be formed or rarer still, be there from the very beginning. A call from human soul to angelic grace. But I don't feel the presence of another angel in her vicinity, no._

_That's great, Cas. Now can you project less and hush?_ Knowing the Vision wasn't actually in communion with the angels didn't come as a surprise to Dean, but he wanted to hear her plan. Whether he liked it or not, she was a beacon of guidance and hope for the villagers. Dean looked back at Cas who had folded his arms, his posture indicating nothing about Dean's choice of words. 

“ – and close our eyes as we send our prayers to the angels so they may deliver Jack swiftly.” Naomi clasped her hands as she looked out over the people, waiting for them to follow her command. 

Almost all of the villagers had their heads bowed down, prayers ready on their lips. In the corner, Dean saw two figures hunched over – Jack's parents – their hands clasped together in desperation. Sorrow had washed away all the youth from Lucien, and wrinkles that the day before had been shallow were now deep; grief entrenched in his face. Kelly's face was closed off, as if the denial of anything amiss was the only thing keeping overwhelming sorrow at bay.

Dean found himself rising from the bench, his eyes fixated on Naomi. “What are you doing?” Reverent silence made way for confused whispers as the villagers took note of Dean's behavior. He could feel someone tug on his arm, but he yanked his hand away.

“We are praying for – “

“I know what you are doing!” Dean tried to keep anger away from his voice, but him interrupting Naomi was already indication that he was very upset. And irreverent. Not that it mattered. He was already known as the crazy, fool lusting for divine punishment. Irreverence would probably just earn him a slap on the wrist when he met the other angels. “Why are you not doing the thing you should be doing?”

Naomi looked at him as if he was out of his mind and Dean could hear people mumble, while others gasped in outrage. “I'm not quite sure I follow, Dean.”

“Jack is out there! Scared, alone and you are just leaving him there? Because he what... crossed some edge that means shit? He's just a child, barely eight years old!” Maybe Dean was not in his most tactful of moods, but he was way past the point of desiring to smooth things over. 

Eldon's voice carried over the murmurs. “I'm not surprised, really. It seems all these excursions to the Edge have finally taken a toll on poor Dean.”

A voice could be heard shouting from the back.“Poison mushrooms! They've seeped into his mind.”

Naomi cleared her throat, urging the villagers to quiet down. She took measured steps towards Dean, eyes acute as she honed in on him like a bird of prey moments away from piercing sweet flesh with sharp talons. “He's been gone for over a day. Just because you traverse the Edge, courting death but somehow managing to survive, does not mean that everyone else is so lucky.” She paused, and glanced at the onlookers, making sure that she had their undivided attention. “You are cursed, Dean Winchester, and everything you touch turns to poison.”

Dean flinched at the surety of her words, and although not all of the worshipers readily agreed with her there were enough murmurs and sympathies echoing her proclamation. He peered quickly at his parents. Mary was assembling her skirts and Dean knew that she was ready to stand up and take his side. John looked at Dean, his eyes reflecting a confusing mix of pride, anger, and sorrow but still he parted his lips, ready to speak. Dean shook his head imperceptibly at both of them, before turning to Naomi again. 

“I'm cursed you say? How come your prayers are not working? For seeing the visions of supernatural angels it's odd that you can't see the rotting tomatoes or the dying potatoes in front of you? People are starving!” Anger made his words louder. “And I _am_ cursed, yes! Cursed to see the day when you sit here on your asses, whispering fucking prayers when Jack needs you to go look for him!” Dean turned and addressed the villagers. “That goes for all of you, sad woolheads!” 

Some looked at Dean as if they wanted to raise their voices in agreement, others shook their heads at what they perceived was the final confirmation that the protective hands of angels over Dean had finally lifted and he'd turned mad .

From the corner of his eye he could see Gog and Magog, the village twins – resembling beasts more than men – getting up, their intention clearly written in the scowl of their faces and how they flexed their knuckles. No wonder they looked like they'd swallowed sour berries most of the time, Dean would too, if his mother decided to name him after something that sounded more like a wet fart than an actual name.

Dean smiled wryly. “No more prayers right, _now_ you choose action instead?”

Naomi's lips were thin, her eyes dark with anger. “Ignore Dean Winchester. His poisonous words shall not afflict those who are pure. Heeding his call will only inflict suffering upon us. Let's not tempt the angels' patience with words tainted from unclean lips. Now, let us all proceed to the market. Clean life and clear eyes.”

Dean's shook his head in disbelief. _You think I should tell her how unclean my lips are, Cas?_

Castiel appeared in front of the door to the house of prayer, a look of disapproval on his face. A wave of arousal, Dean's mind bringing him back to times when that gaze was followed by Cas' intimate touch, washed over him. _I fail to see how that would rectify anything or help you right now._

_I don't want to rectify anything, Cas. I just want to see her hiss like an angry cat. It's all for my pleasure._

Castiel nodded slowly. _I do think that you have more pressing concerns right now than sharing your sexual proclivity with her. It seems the only pleasure you'll see is the wind in your hair as your legs carry you far away from here._

_Why?_ Dean looked back at Naomi, anger contorting her face into something dark and twisted. Even her usually pale cheeks were tinged with the blush of – in her mind – righteous ire. The finality of Naomi's words had people moving, some walking hurriedly to grab their produce and goods to choose the best stalls for the market while others meandered, more interested in casting curious, and not always friendly glances at Dean instead.

Gog and Magog suddenly moved as one, intent on capturing Dean. 

_Oh, that was my pressing concern._ Quickly, Dean brushed past his mother and headed towards the exit. He tried not to push people aside but some of them were moving slower than molasses, and Gog and Magog were surprisingly fast for being sentient tree trunks.

As Dean took the final steps towards freedom, he walked into Eldon. 

“Not so fast, Dean.” Eldon smirked, with no intention to make way for Dean. “You think you can run away from the knowledge of what you are? Abandoned by angels and men alike. If it weren't for you and what you've brought upon us, this village would prosper. You are cursed, Dean. And your curse will be the death of Jack.” Eldon leaned in close to Dean's ear and whispered. “Just as you were the cause of Samuel's death.”

“Fuck you!” Dean closed his fist and punched Eldon straight in the face. Blood squirted over them both as Eldon screamed out in shock and pain. Satisfaction was the overwhelming emotion for a few seconds – Eldon was such an ass – before pain settled as a throbbing ache in his hand. Looking back over his shoulder, Gog and Magog were too close for comfort. Dean shoved Eldon towards the twins and ran outside.

He ran past the throng of people perusing the meager market offerings on display, he ran past houses with thatched roofs until they gave way to the open space of grass and meadows. He ran hard, until the taste of iron coated his tongue and the beating of his heart pounded in his ears. He ran hard, until the sound of water running over rocks overpowered his labored breaths, but nothing could wash away the cold embrace around his heart. Dean ran as hard as he could but still the words that rattled inside his mind persisted. _You were the cause of Samuel's death._


	8. Exploration

Each inhale brought fire down Dean's lungs and the muscles in his legs were objecting to the grueling pace but he refused to acknowledge all the ways his body was urging him to slow down, to rest and think. The grass rushed past him, his feet kicking up small pebbles here and there. A heavy, sharp weight on his shoulder made him stumble forward and he caught himself just before his face was to give the ground a hard kiss. 

Rolling over with a grunt, Dean looked up at a familiar face. Her red braid was hanging over his face, and he yanked at it, before getting up with a grimace. “Charlie, what are you doing?” The sight of his friend temporarily smoothed out the worst edges of his anger and pulled him out from the deepest depths of his despair.

“Question is more, what are you doing? Known you since you let your little willie flap free while hanging in your mother's skirts, Dean and I've never seen you run around like a headless chicken before. Not that I'm interested in your willie.”

Dean grasped his black purse for reassurance while subtly feeling for his leather sack hidden underneath his tunic. He looked around and noticed that they were all alone. “You're not interested in _anyone's_ willie, Charlie,” he whispered despite their solitude, “but if you were, I'd imagine mine would be the first on your mind.” He smiled as Charlie rolled her eyes.

“You can't charm your way out of this one, Dean.” Charlie tapped her foot in impatience. “Spit it out, so I can be in the know and aid you in whatever loopy plan you have concocted.”

“What? There is no loopy plan. I was just taking... a stroll.” His hopes for making a subtle run to the Edge had realistically died when he questioned Naomi and punched Eldon square in the face but it was just his luck that Charlie would be the one that saw him, let alone run after him.

Charlie raised an eyebrow at the apparent lie.

Combing his fingers through his hair, Dean started walking again, eager to put more distance between himself and the village. Charlie followed him closely, like a leech refusing to let go. When Charlie's house came into view, she quickly left his side. Dean felt a twinge of guilt seeping into him as he increased his speed, hoping to leave her behind but a few minutes later she reappeared, carrying a net in her hands.

Dean sighed.“You can't come with me, Charlie. And I doubt you'll catch any fish.”

Charlie just smiled and attached the fishnet on her belt. “I'll show your doubt when I catch a nice trout.”

Dean cursed under his breath. “Fine, if you want to go head first into cursed country filled with quagmires, be my guest.”

Charlie looped her arm around Dean's. “We went to the Edge when we were kids.”

Grimacing, Dean walked beside the river until he spotted the place. It was narrow enough, lined with jutting rocks that had been a challenge when he was younger but now functioned as a stepping stone to the other side. “We were stupid when we were kids.” He glanced at Charlie and noticed that her face had softened.

“So? Now you are all grown up and still stupid.” Charlie bumped her fist on Dean's shoulder. 

Being around Charlie always brought out the kid in him, but he refused to play along this time. He needed to do this alone, and he would not lose someone he cared for. Not again. He turned around to face Charlie. She had her smile back on, curiosity burning in her eyes that quickly faded when Dean began to speak. “I'm not fooling around, Charlie. I'm going alone. I might have been stupid when I was a child, but not anymore. I know where I'm going.” 

Sort of. His plan was to follow the river inwards, he figured that Jack had done the same. His heart sank. The forest was vast and nothing spoke of Jack following the waters. He might as easily have veered off into the forest, or encountered the wetlands – Dean stopped himself before darker thoughts consumed him. Jack was alive.

“You're stubborn, Dean. One of the most stubborn, caring, idiotic, nicest people I know.”

Dean blinked. “You trying to persuade me by tossing random insults at me while also... complimenting me?”

“Is it working?” Charlie took a step back. “And I'm not trying to persuade you. I'm going.” She jumped across with ease and landed on the other side. 

When Dean followed suit, Charlie had already made her way along the river. He knew the river would soon turn and meander deeper into the woods. Already the heat was noticeable, but the forest would grow denser in a while and the canopy would shade them as they kept on walking. Several times Dean tried to talk to Charlie but she pointedly ignored him and kept her pace. Soon he gave up and fell quiet next to her. When they approached the old spot where Dean used to swim as a child, he finally broke the silence. “Look, Charlie, I really appreciate this... desire to accompany me but I'd rather you stay behind.” 

The familiar surge of cold rushed through Dean and he shuddered as Castiel manifested in front of him. The angel had his wings out but where they were usually a magnificent display with the dark blue feathers interspersed with black, glistening as the sunlight hit them, now they seemed dark and ominous. As Castiel walked towards Dean with sure steps, the wings seemed to absorb the light around him and a black halo surrounded him.

_She is correct, Dean. You are one of the most stubborn people I know. Luckily your stubbornness is overshadowed by your loving and fierce nature._

_Am I wearing a sign that says 'Please, insult Dean Winchester?'_

Castiel quirked an eyebrow._Sometimes your aura does emit those vibrations, yes._

Dean rolled his eyes and felt a sharp poke in the middle of his chest. 

“If you roll your eyes at me again, Dean...” 

Dean looked down at Charlie who was visibly upset, her voice quivering. 

She got even closer to Dean and looked up at him, her eyes aglow with anger. “You stood up to Naomi, punched Eldon in the face – I have to confess I took _great_ pleasure in that – you basically condemned the entire village for their lack of inaction. And now you are scolding me for doing the very thing you encouraged? You are like a brother to me, Dean and you acting like this... Stop being such a fucking turnip!”

Charlie was breathing heavily, and Dean swallowed when he saw the hurt in her eyes. “Look, I'm – You're right. I'm sorry.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “I wasn't rolling my... Forget it, you are right, Charlie. I didn't mean it like that.” Dean embraced her, hugging her tightly. Putting his chin on the top of her head, he whispered. “I just don't wanna lose you too.”

“Hey, stop trying to bore a hole into my head with your weirdly sharp chin.”

Chuckling, Dean eased up and tugged at her braid playfully. “Mm, sorry. I'll try to turnip my mood around you, be more...pleasant.”

Shaking her head in exasperation at the bad pun, Charlie turned around. “Let's get going. We can't waste anymore time. And Dean?” She grabbed his hand and squeezed it, before her arms snaked around his waist, giving him another hug. “Love you too. You're like the annoying big brother I never knew I wanted.”

A sharp crackling of broken twigs, followed by the rustling of leaves came from behind them and both turned as one as a huge birch tree slowly tumbled to the ground. Charlie wrapped her other arm around Dean and pulled him back with all her might, just in time as a branch brushed past him, and landed with a heavy thud on the grass. “Whoa, that was close. Clear eyes! Just a second more and that tree would have knocked you out cold. Odd that it fell so suddenly. You alright, Dean?”

Dean huffed out a breath as he stared at the tree. “Yeah, I'm good.”

_Apologies. _Castiel's voice sounded muted. After a beat of silence, another projection entered Dean's mind. I must say her reflexes are impressive.

_Apologies?! That was you?_ Dean pushed all the annoyance he felt into his thoughts and shoved them at Castiel. _We could have died!_

Castiel nodded. _Everyone can die at any time. That's the sacred contract you sign when you live on the physical plane._ His voice seemed softer in Dean's mind as he continued. _I'm sorry, it wasn't my intention to harm you. I just wanted to make sure you were good after everything that transpired with Naomi._

“Thanks for that, Charlie. I didn't escape the clutches of Gog and Magog, only to allow a third wooden thing to kill me. Now, I'll move before I'm the one crushing you to death.” Dean eased off Charlie and helped her up. _Next time, try to reign in on the fucking falling trees, Cas. And I forgive you. Only because you sparkle so prettily._

_Sometimes even I can't predict where the physical manifestations will occur, Dean. But I'll take your suggestion to heart and try to reign in the 'fucking falling trees'._ Castiel walked up to Dean, his hand caressing the soft skin at the back of Dean's neck in a gesture more to reassure than to possess. _And the angel of Death doesn't sparkle. I shine with ethereal light._

_Uh-huh. Sure thing, Cas._ The hair on Dean's arms stood up in primal warning and he noticed a shiver passing through Charlie, as if this close, the unseen proximity to Castiel awoke something in her. Dean closed his eyes briefly as he tried to still his frantic heartbeats. Though his mind knew Cas intimately, his body at times still insisted on responding to Castiel as something that should be innately feared. 

Reluctantly, Dean stepped away from Castiel's touch and went after Charlie. They followed the river but didn't see any signs of Jack. The ground was muddy in places, but last night's rainfall would've erased any signs that the boy might've accidentally left behind. He could sense Castiel walking behind him, a silent shadow, but for now that suited Dean. He was too focused on searching for any clues about Jack's whereabouts anyway. 

“I'll turn left here, Dean.” Charlie pointed to an almost invisible path that led parallel to the river, hidden among dense bushes and coarse grass. “I can still see you and this way we'll cover a larger area.”

“Alright. We can meet up at the Pig.”

Charlie looked at him quizzically. “And that is?”

Dean smiled. “You'll know when you see it. It's a rock formation that's near Dean's treasure. Kind of looks like a fat pig. Has a snout and all. Close to the rock, the river turns and meanders deeper into the forest, one part of it anyway, so I figure it's a good place to meet up.” 

“_Dean's_treasure and the Pig? Do I want to know what this treasure bit is all about? ” Charlie shook her head, but he could tell she was amused by the names.

“Hey, I was a kid. Who wouldn't name something after themselves?”

They parted ways and Dean could hear Charlie call out Jack's name but to no avail. The only response that greeted her was the same one he received; the rustling of grass as he walked onward, the occasional chirp of a bird hidden among the trees and the deep whispers of the river as it flowed over rocks. Now and then Dean looked at the water, and each time breathed a sigh of relief when he didn't see a discarded shoe or a torn tunic.

_I'm glad you're here, Cas._ Dean angled his hand and a smile curled at his lips when he felt the ghost of a touch linger on his skin as Cas took it and gave it a little squeeze. Turning his head, his smile faltered when he noticed Cas' wings again.

_I heard the words Eldon spoke to you, and I wanted to make sure you were not too... distressed._ Castiel spoke carefully, as if he feared his words would cause further harm.

_Thanks. I'm good, Cas. It's amazing how much better you feel after you punch an asshole._ The sun licked Dean's exposed skin, but as he glanced at Cas' wings again, he felt a cold dread in his stomach. The dark aura was still there, embracing Castiel like a shroud. _You're not so sparkly now. Why are your wings, all of you so... dark all of a sudden?_ He paused and tried to lighten the mood. _Are you molting or something? I'll love you even if your feathers end up looking like a huge ass feather duster, Cas. It will still be your huge ass feather duster._.

Castiel looked at one wing and then at Dean, as if surprised that Dean had taken note of something odd. Just when Dean thought that Cas had decided that he would keep silent he spoke. _It's just a manifestation of altered vibrations. _

Dean sighed as his fingers danced over reedheads, waiting for further explanation. He pulled some off and tossed them back in the river, watching as the water yanked them around. _You know, you can just say 'I don't wanna tell you', instead of getting all Vision mystic cryptic on me._

_I don't want to tell you. _Cas' straightforward, blunt answer was mitigated by the soft smile he flashed at Dean. He arched his wing so it sheltered Dean overhead and they walked like this, undisturbed for a while.

_Well, that was one way to be honest. _Dean chuckled, but his laughter died down. Lately, everything in Dean seemed fraught. It wasn't that he felt hopeless, not much at least, but it was exhausting to _worry._

He worried about his parents and he worried about the crops. He was not so worried about the aftermath from the scene at worship but it was still in the back of his mind. And now he worried about Jack. At least action on his part dulled some of the worst of his apprehension. _Cas..._ There was hesitation in Dean's voice, but just the thought of what he was going to ask made bile rise up from his stomach. _Jack is – You would tell me... Fuck._ Dean scrubbed a hand over his face and tried again. _I get it, I'm a puny human and the universe is vast, dancing around drunk on ale and brandy, while spewing mysterious um... wisdom and all that crap but, can you tell me if Jack is dead or not?_

The silence that followed was one of the longest in Dean's life.

Cas squeezed his hand once. _Jack is still with the living._

Dean exhaled and as he emptied his lungs, some of that worry left him. Breathing in new air, he was filled with a regained sense of purpose. _And he'll stay with the fucking living, if I have anything to say about it._

Castiel stopped, a hand on Dean's shoulder urging him to do the same. _I need to go, Dean. I have... something to attend to._

_Alright. Thanks for spilling the beans._

_Beans?_ Castiel tilted his head to the side. _You know I don't need food as an angel. But if eating was required of me I do think I'd most definitely 'spill the beans'. It may be a nutritious food but I'm well aware of the flatulence it causes._ There was a slight pause and then Castiel continued. _Quite a few souls have passed from flatulence. I remember this man from Mesop that fell down a house construction, trying to escape the odors his own body had produced._

Dean grinned and slapped Cas' arm. _His own fart killed him. That's ama – um, very sad. Muddle my eyes, but I wouldn't wanna die like that. Give me an epic death, saving some poor sap and I'm good. That or dying looking like an old gnarled root. Alright, you go and do your thing._ Dean exhaled. _I have a kid to save_.

_We'll meet again._ Castiel wrapped him in a hug so suddenly, that Dean didn't even have time to register his surprise. Instead, he inhaled the unique scent that was Cas' own, pleasure flooding through him at the familiarity of Cas' body. They were made for each other. 

_TYou'll always be mine. We were made for each other._

The similarity of Cas' whispered words in his mind made his heart sing. _Fuck yeah, we are._ Barely had he finished the thought, when Castiel vanished and Dean plummeted to the ground. He really wished Castiel would give him some kind of warning when leaving. 

⸙  


Charlie sat on the rock, legs crossed when Dean arrived at the Pig. She was playing with some reeds, but jumped down as Dean approached her. “Tell me you found _something_”

Her voice was laced with frustration and Dean hated that his answer would disappoint her. “Nothing, but I also didn't find any clues of him being dragged downriver. That's always something. He's barely been gone a day; we're gonna find him, Charlie. We have to.” Bending down, Dean cupped his hands, letting the water pool before bringing it to his lips. When his thirst had been quenched, he brought out the leather sack and dunked it in the water. Filling it up, he corked the opening and slid the sack over his back. 

“Ready to get some blisters on your soft baby feet, Charlie?”

“Baby feet? My calluses are not to mess with, Dean. Don't worry about me.”

Dean's tunic was uncomfortably plastered to his back, sweat making his skin itch despite the shade of the trees looming overhead. Wiping away the worst from his face he tried to glean a view of the sky. Humidity like this usually spoke of bad weather to come but the small peeks he saw, revealed stark white clouds on a clear blue background. A huge oak titled to one side, its vast green crown hanging to one side as if bowing down in reverence to the ground that sustained it with nutrients. Dean stopped and huffed out a breath as Charlie slammed into him.

“Ouch! A warning before you do that. What's wrong?” Charlie walked around Dean and looked ahead but didn't notice anything that would warrant a sudden stop. She turned back quickly, facing Dean. “Is it about Jack? Did you see something?”

“Nah, nothing about Jack. But I did find something, hopefully. I remember this spot with the oak from years back. Tag along.” Dean walked with confident strides, his back straight as he sought the place he'd kept closely hidden. The elation and wonder he'd felt as a child over his findings had turned into reluctance and finally, shame had taken deep roots in his heart when he'd almost lost one of his closest friends. It was only with the experience that life had provided him with and an unquenchable desire to explore – and if he was being honest – to break rules, that had kept pushing him to go past the Edge in his adulthood.

Near the oak tree's roots – big, gnarly coils that made the ground around it uneven – was a field of green bushes. Dean smiled in relief when he saw that it was as he'd remembered it. He uncorked his leather sack and took a sip, then offered it to Charlie. When she shook her head, he shrugged and poured out the water. Charlie bent down to take a closer look at the bushes. “Dean! Is that what I think it is?”

“Yeah, sure is.” Charlie's excitement just cemented Dean's belief that he, _they_, were doing the right thing.

Grabbing a handful of leaves, Charlie pulled until the earth gave way and revealed a cluster of potatoes. Wiping away some dirt was only done out of pure habit and with speed, because then Charlie did a little jump and squealed. “Potatoes! Look at them, Dean, they're potatoes. And they are big, purple, strange-looking and round and just beautiful!” Realizing what she had said, she grabbed one and turned it around, as if making sure her proclamation rang true. She squeezed it with her hand and fired off a big smile at Dean. “They don't give way. No mush here.” Taking the bundle she shook off more dirt before ripping off potatoes. Still holding on to them, she wrapped Dean in a hug that conveyed all her emotions. “Thank you.”

“It's nothing. Just glad someone believes me.” Dean offered up his leather sack and Charlie threw the potatoes in before grabbing another bundle. “Let's hope the villagers will share your enthusiasm. And if they don't and decide to chase us with pitchforks, well, it's their fucking loss. Although I doubt people will be that dumb.”

Charlie brushed away some errant strands that tickled her cheek. “Mm. Don't underestimate the foolishness of people. But I agree. It's easy to dismiss you and call you mad, by the way, I never believed any of that talk, but what is Naomi gonna do when she sees all this glorious potato, mm?”

Scoffing, Dean adjusted the sack over his back. “Hopefully, choke on it. We can come back for more later, it's not like we can carry all of the potatoes anyway.”

“Sounds like a plan. Hey, Dean – ”

Dean raised his eyebrow at the soft tone lacing Charlie's voice. “Yeah?”

“Thank you.” 

Her smile had never lost that earnest, pure quality that was found in children but that adults soon let go off when facing the hardships of the world. That was one of the qualities she possessed that Dean loved her for. “You already thanked me once. What is this 'thank you' for?”

“For keeping faith, when so many people have lost it.” She came to his side, weaving her fingers with his. 

Dean squeezed her hand. At times it was still hard to embrace kind words, and to really believe the truth of them but he imagined he was getting better at it. Charlie's earnest words held so much sincerity that he kept his silence for a few heartbeats, afraid that his voice would break. He didn't want to dredge up the memories of her calling him 'Little frog' when he'd gone through his change from boy to man. Dean would be pleased if that name stayed buried and dead. Clearing his throat, he nodded. “I don't know about faith, but yeah.” Turning towards her, he punched her hard on the shoulder. “You're welcome.”

Charlie hissed out the first insult she could think of. “Turnip!” 

Dean fired back in kind. “Carrot!”

⸙  


The river had changed. The water hadn't been languid before, but it had neither been wild or restless. Now, it had widened even more and as Charlie and Dean put miles behind them, the soft hum of the river had transformed to a raging song that at times almost drowned out their voices. Dean didn't know if that was a natural occurrence or if the heavy rainfalls the night before had increased the volume of the water. All he knew was that they were far from home but he'd memorized certain landmarks, so they could find their way back to the village. There was no point in scouring the Edge for evidence of edible food if they got lost, never to find home again.

“Over here!” Dean had to raise his voice to be certain Charlie heard him. His body was warm but it was from exertion, the heat flowing through him rather than from the sun shining down on him. The very air was saturated, bursting with humidity and Dean was certain that if he divested himself of his clothes, he would be able to take a bath then and there, no river needed.

While the canopy was thicker now this deep into the forest, it was not impenetrable and life seemed to flourish here. They had passed several thickets of bushes teeming with berries and while Dean had opted to not pick the ones foreign to him, he and Charlie had gorged themselves on wild raspberries and tart lingonberries. 

“One moment, I'm tying off my net!”Charlie had abandoned the berries for now and was crouched at the edge of the river, expertly tying the fishing net in a low-hanging branch. Plunging her hands in the cold water she moved around some of the heavier rocks. She returned to Dean's side, the edges of her mouth red with the traces of her meal.“I wouldn't call this my proudest attempt at catching fish but hopefully, we'll get some indication of the fish being good this far up the river. It should be good. I mean the berries and potatoes look different but should taste the same. ”

“Hope you're right. I have a feeling that some people will need a lot of proof and even then we'll be ridiculed.” Dean smiled. “And if we don't catch any fish, I hope this will do.” 

Peering down, Charlie immediately recognized the root cause of Dean's excitement. “Look at that, carrots! This place is basically begging us to eat it.”

Dean grimaced. “I'm sure that is not what the forest is begging us to do. But hey, at least the forest isn't eating _us._ I'm still waiting for that curse to rain down on us. Angels to smite us or, pimples to erupt all over your nose.” Dean chuckled.

Charlie pulled a carrot back and forth until the earth yielded its prized possession to her. “It wasn't pimples but poison ivy and you should know, you blind face fart, because it was you who tripped me.”

“Uh-huh, you still remember that part. “

“Well, yes. Wouldn't you, if your nose burned for days afterwards? And that was despite Anael's lotion.” Clutching an orange carrot, Charlie examined it before handing it over. “Why is this carrot so... normal-looking?”

Shrugging, Dean sniffed it.“I don't know, do I look like I speak carrot to you?” Charlie was in the right though. While the potatoes had an odd purple color to them, not seen in the village, the carrot looked ordinary, almost dull in comparison. He went over to a scraggy rock, covered in some moss and scraped the sides of the carrot on a sharp edge until the bitter, outer skin was gone. Turning back to the river Dean washed off the worst of the residue before taking a huge chunk of the carrot. “It looks normal 'cause it is a carrot,” he said in between chews. “Tastes like carrot. It's fine. Grab some extra. If we show these to Metatron I'm sure we'll win him over.”

“He talked to you about his carrot cake recently?” Charlie went through the carrot tops, pulling out the biggest ones.

“Only to curse and complain about the lack of them. I quote 'These orange twigs are not worthy to be called carrots. I'm sure Zachariah is hiding the best ones. He's always been envious of my baking success, ever since we were children and aunt Amara picked my peach scones over his blueberry ones.' Dean shook his head in disgust. “With how Zachariah walks around the village, looking down on everyone, I'm sure his ass is full of them.”

Leaving Charlie to dig up the carrots she favored most, Dean looked up at the sky. Through the leaves, all he could see was muted grays. Moving until he was a few feet away, Dean cast his eyes to the sky again and the same view greeted him. It filled him with unease. A storm was brewing on the horizon, and knowing his luck it would erupt right over them, drenching them in water. There had been a rainfall the day before but this seemed more ominous. “Charlie, I think we need to go. Now.”

Charlie looked back at Dean and narrowed her eyes as she recognized the alarm in his voice. “What's wrong? She followed his gaze up. “Oh. You think we're getting rain?”

“Yeah. A lot of rain.” _Cas, you know anything about this storm? How bad will it get?_

Dean frowned when there was no answer. It was not that Dean was of the notion that Cas would heed his every beck and call; he was the angel of Death as he'd made certain Dean remembered on plenty of occasions. Still, a small seed of worry had started to grow. Cas usually made himself known with frequent regularity and his sudden departure was now painted in a different, more fearful light. _Hey, Cas? Get your feathery ass over here._ Usually, by now he'd hear Castiel's voice in his head, telling him how wrong it was to greet an angel with words like that, especially an angel that had his heart.

“We have enough carrots. Let's keep on walking but be on the lookout for a shelter. We don't want to be caught up in a storm.” Her face fell. “Jack. You think he's – “

“He's good. A tough kid. We'll find him.” But even to Dean's own ears, it sounded more like a wish born from childish hope than a proclamation made with any real conviction.

Dean's voice was almost raw from screaming Jack's name but the thunderous roar from the river was louder than ever. Feeling the weight of his small purse with coins did little to reassure him but at least it was there, something constant in a world that was fickle by nature, like the water currents changing paths unseen under the surface. Feeling the first drops of rain on his nose, Dean cursed out loud. 

Charlie was close to Dean, her arm in his. “If the skies open up, any possible trails Jack will have left behind will be ruined.”

The thought was not new to Dean but hearing it voiced aloud made his heart sink. “You're right, Charlie. It's like the angels are conspiring against us.” Not that he really believed it himself. Just as he hardly believed Naomi's claims of the angels watching over them and guiding them, it seemed unlikely that they were so invested in human lives as to care enough to conspire and punish those they deemed were out of line. 

He saw the look Charlie gave him. “No, I don't believe that. You really think I'd be out here if I was expecting an angel to spank me for being bad, not following some rules they pulled out of their asses?”

“Yes!” Charlie's voice sounded confident. She ran back to the river and carefully removed the rocks, before untying the net. Scooping it up in her arms, she called back. “All done, let's move.”

A loud rumble was heard from above and Dean and Charlie hurried to take cover beneath a huge oak. It wasn't the largest one in the area so they didn't risk lightning to strike if the weather worsened. Charlie patiently untangled her net, folding it neatly, a huge smile on her face. “Told you we'd get something.”

Dean looked at the solitary fish. The scales were a soft yellow, with black stripes glistening despite the lack of sunshine, its eyes cold and void of life. “As long as it pairs well with bacon. It's just one fish, though.”

Charlie would not be dissuaded. “One fish means it has lots of brothers and sisters. We're going to catch them all! And bacon? Really, Dean? Only you'd think fish and bacon are a great pairing.”

Another rumbling broke off their conversation, the promise of rain still hanging in the air. Dean stood up and adjusted his clothes. “Are we just gonna sit here like old shrews? If we get caught in this storm, that means Jack most definitely will be trapped in the same weather. We can cover more ground. If the rain catches us by surprise, we'll hide somewhere. Jack needs us.” Charlie nodded. None of them refused to acknowledge the possibility of Jack being lost for good.

As they walked darkness came slowly upon them, so gently that they were unsure if it was substantial or just shadows from the trees playing tricks on their eyes. Finally, the thicket of the forest eased open as the river flowed onward. Majestic trees gave way to smaller bushes and willowy trees as reeds started to dot the riverbank. Small drops of rain fell from the sky, their caress a soothing contrast to the groaning sky above them. Dean didn't welcome the rain. Sure, it gave a reprieve from the oppressive humidity and heat but a serious downpour would hinder them in their search for Jack and could possibly stop it altogether. 

Wiping away some errand raindrops from his face, Dean frowned as he noticed that the ground had become... soft. His shoes were wet and he could most definitely hear a squelching sound as he walked. “Hey, Charlie? Is it just me or does the ground seem to feel almost –?”

“ – Spongy? Not just you.” Charlie stopped and pressed her foot down hard into the ground. Water immediately flowed to the surface, crowning her shoe in a wet halo. 

_Hey, Cas, haven't seen you in a while. Maybe you're busy with important errands. Fly by when you're done. _Dean tried not to worry about this prolonged absence from Castiel. He was an angel after all. His ways were mysterious, or cryptic as Naomi used to say in her sermons. _Gimme a sign or a little something that you can still hear me. _His mind was silent. 

Dean's hand went to his black purse. He squeezed it hard once, and then checked his leather bag. Satisfied that it still held tight, he looked up at the sky again. “It sure can't be because of the rain. These few drops can't turn the ground into this liquid mud soup.” After a few beats of silence, Dean turned, only to see that Charlie had stopped, staring into a thorny bush as if possessed by some evil force.

As he ran over to her, Charlie turned to face him. Her red hair was dark where the rain had sprinkled over her, but her eyes shone with excitement. “Dean.” Her voice was barely a whisper, and he guessed more than heard the words she was mouthing. She grabbed his hand and shoved something in his palm, before cupping his fingers over it.

Dean opened his hand and looked at the cause of her excitement. It was the torn, faded, yellow arm piece from a child tunic.


	9. Salvation

The water was swirling around Dean's ankles, rushing past him until it slowed down to a trickle, hindered by grass, rocks, and bushes scattered some distance away. A brown, muddy residue coated the ground, left behind as the river flowed over its natural containment. Further away, Dean spotted what he thought was potato leaves, hollow green onion stalks rising up towards the sky and the yellow flowers of sunchokes. “Great. Not only is the sky above trying to drench me, now the blasted earth is trying to swallow me...“ Dean finally won the tug of war for his shoe and smiled triumphantly as he limped away from the worst of the wet, boggy soil. 

Thunder cracked across the sky and clouds that were white and serene before had gathered into huge stacks of ominous gray, the threat of a torrent quite literally hanging over their heads. Charlie was further away from the water, perched on a sturdy branch on a tree as she looked out over the river. Dean could see it more in how her body tensed, in the turn of her head and how her arm frantically pointed to a spot across the waters than from her actually speaking. Her lips formed the words Dean but all he could hear was the rushing of river water, the increasing drumming of the rain as it pebbled on the ground and the groaning of the darkening sky. 

Dean turned and wiped away water that kept running down his eyes, turning the world into an unclear, vision of reality. Charlie was suddenly by his side, shouting in his ear to overpower all other sounds. “By the oak, next to that rock. Do you see that movement?” 

Looking at a row of trees growing in the middle of the river Dean soon realized his eyes were deceiving him. The line of trees _was_ the other side of the riverbank, but now grass, roots, and land was covered with water. Narrowing his eyes, he followed where Charlie's finger pointed. At first, it was difficult to perceive anything out of the ordinary. The rain left soft indentations on the river for now, but those could turn at any moment to fierce whippings merging with the stormy waters into a dangerous and possibly deadly dance. Dean looked so hard that he was starting to see double but then his breath caught. A flash of yellow up in the tree. 

“That's got to be Jack!” Hope surged through him, eager to wind its way into his heart, but Dean pushed it down. Hope could easily morph into anticipation, and that notion tinged with recklessness could derail their attempts at a rescue. “I have no idea how he got there but we're not leaving without him.” Dean turned around and removed his leather sack. He hung it on a branch but stopped himself when he felt his fingers touch the black leather purse. The very essence of him rebelled at the notion of being without it. 

Charlie was staring intently at the river and startled when Dean appeared in her vicinity. He grabbed her hand and squeezed it. She pressed back and smiled briefly before a determined expression settled over her features again. Letting go of him, she adjusted the net hanging by her waist. “Dean. Would you claim you're still nimble at your age or do you feel more like Death is knocking at your door?”

Dean frowned. “Hard to say. You wouldn't see me tossing my feet about like a cow, on its first day of summer pasture. But I'm not _that_ old.”

“I don't know. Kind of looks that way when you try to dance.” A brief smile flashed over Charlie's face before she became serious as she waved at him. “Come, follow me. I think I know a way.” She turned and walked alongside the river as the increasing wind howled around them, a somber song accompanying the soft rain.

The fallen tree was wide enough for Dean to firmly plant his feet on as it jutted out almost halfway into the river. The crown had been stripped of its leaves by the raging streams as it lay submerged underwater. He could see the craggy top of a rock jutting out, straight ahead. Moving his shoulders, Dean tried to escape the uneasy feeling of wet fabric clinging to his skin, hindering his movements. It certainly was a way; the way of a cursed madman, Dean thought with grim determination. A particularly strong wind current slapped him across his face, and Dean let out a laugh. Cursed. The villagers had uttered that particular word around Dean for years. If they only knew how right they were. _Let's hope you're still watching over me, Cas._

Silence. 

Letting out a sigh, and stowing away his thoughts about Castiel for the moment, Dean took a few steps back. Narrowing his eyes, he focused his gaze on the rock, as if it was a lifeline for a drowning man. He dug his feet in, and then pushed away will all his strength, the muscles in his legs flexing. Right at the edge of the tree, Dean jumped. The landing sent a jolt traveling up his spine, as Dean straightened but another gust of wind nudged him with determination, and he crouched back down on the rock. He turned back and saw Charlie standing near the edge of the river, waving. He waved back, hoping the gesture would reassure her. Dean pulled absentmindedly on his black purse as he looked towards the oak tree. 

Despite the rain and dark clouds above him, he could see a shape high up on a branch but he was not certain that Jack had seen him. Suddenly, the shape disappeared. Clear fucking eyes, spit of an angel and everything in between. Dean could not tell if Jack had moved closer to the tree or if he'd plummeted to the ground, but those were thoughts he didn't wish to dwell on at the moment. He was well past the midpoint to Jack's tree, and the next rock was a short jump away. Landing smoothly on the flattened surface, Dean tensed, momentarily losing his balance under the slick rock but steadied himself by crouching down and grabbing the rock with his fingers.

Slowly, Dean rose up again as the wind pushed against him, and stretched out his arms to counterbalance the force of the gusts as they tried to knock him off the rock. It was as if nature itself was filled with ire that he would dare defy her tempestuous inclination by crossing the river. He spotted a round dark shape – another rock – silhouetted in the water just ahead of a gnarly root sticking up that belonged to a tree growing next to the oak Jack was in. He figured that he could use the tree to gain some more height before he made the jump to the larger tree. Dean blinked as he tried to wipe away more raindrops pooling above his eyebrows and dripping down into his eyes, but it was a futile attempt. Taking a last swipe over his eyes, Dean decided to jump.

He flew into the air and landed with a splash straight into the water as the sand gave way beneath him. The cold water was a shocking contrast to the humid air and for a split second Dean's mind provided him with the now useless realization that it was a heap of sand he'd seen, not a rock. The cold punched the curse away from his lips and forced air out of his lungs. As he breached the dark surface, spluttering frigid water, he realized the current was taking him away from Jack. Kicking his legs and feet hard, Dean gritted his teeth as he swam towards the other side, trying to escape water that threatened to pull him away. His hand brushed past something coarse and he grabbed hold, not letting go. He groaned as he heaved himself up with the help of another root, slowly inching his whole body up to safety. Arms locked around a tree, he looked to his right. Jack's tree was still close, so much so that he was sure he could jump from one tree to the other. His body was trembling from the cold, but he was close. 

Dean started climbing.

As he climbed up the last, thick branch, Dean finally saw Jack. He sat with his arms around a smaller branch, leaning against the tree as the wind blew around him. His face was hidden in the crook of his arm, and Dean was not sure if he was sleeping or trying to avoid the winds lashing at his face. His clothes were wet, and dirty but he was alive. Dean let out a shuddering breath at the sight of him. “Jack!” he shouted but the boy didn't stir. The howling was so loud, that Dean barely heard his own voice. He inched closer, mindful of his steps. He'd come this far and really didn't need to fall down and break his neck. Reaching out, he shook the boy. “Jack!” 

Jack turned his head around swiftly, fear etched on his face. When he saw the familiar face of Dean, there was a brief flash of surprise before his face crumpled, his eyes brimming with tears. He embraced Dean without hesitation. 

He was small against Dean's frame as he hugged him tightly, speaking in his ear, “I got you, Jack, you're safe.” Stroking Jack's hair, Dean continued to hold him. “You're safe, I got you.” 

_The burning in his lungs as he ran as fast as his legs carried him._ “I was in time.” 

_A harrowing scream torn from his mother. _“You're alive.” 

_Sam's limp body as Mary rocked him back and forth._ Dean hugged Jack tighter still. “You're alive.” 

“I got lo – “ A cry wrecked Jack's body and he shuddered in Dean's arms as he continued to cry. “I thought –“ “I was only – “I – “ His sorrow was palpable. Regret, fear, and relief all mingled up into a caustic mixture that logged in his throat, only spilling forth as stammered apologies.

“Shh, it's not your fault. Not your fault, Jack. You've nothing to apologize for.” The raindrops echoed around them and suddenly Dean took note of the sound. The soft drops as the water landed on the leaves had turned more insistent, a hard drumming whereas before it had been a light thud. Another crack of thunder crashed right over their heads.

When Dean tried to ease up on the hold, Jack clung to his tunic, refusing to let go. Finally, Dean had to forcefully loosen Jack's tight grip on his clothes. Again, he raised his voice over the thunder and rain. “Listen up! We need to go, right now. Climb up on my back. And don't let go!” 

Jack's eyes turned uncertain as he dried the tears from his cheeks. “Like a piggyback ride, you mean?”

“Yeah. Just like that. You'll be filching Metatron's pies again in no time.” Whatever Jack needed to embolden himself, Dean was going to give him. He crouched down, waiting and just when he was about to turn around again, he felt a weight on his back. Jack wound his legs around Dean's waist but a hard pressure against his throat made him cough. Grabbing Jack's arms he adjusted them slightly so he could breathe properly. “Alright. Hold on tight. We're gonna climb down now, nice and steady. Whatever you do, don't let go.”

Dean's hand patiently searched the oak tree until he found enough purchase. Pushing down with one foot against the bark, adrenaline pumped through his body as his foot slipped. Grabbing tightly, he pulled himself as flat as he could against the tree, while his right foot found anchor again. Jack provided somewhat of a shield against the worst of the wind and rain but the added weight made the climb down cumbersome. 

As Dean neared the water, his heart was pounding in his chest, more from the agonizingly slow descent, than any real exertion. The sky had darkened considerably, and rain obscured his vision once more. He could feel Jack stir behind him and shouted out, “Stop moving!” He was not sure his admonishment was heard but the boy stopped fidgeting nonetheless. The tree next to him was just a jump away, and Dean landed with a small thud, his tunic being pulled back as Jack held on tightly. 

Peering down at the raging river, he could see the stone he was supposed to land on. It was not impossible but what concerned him was that he had Jack on his back. Yes, it was windy but the advantage of an extra shove could as easily be their demise, knocking them off-kilter straight into the water. On the other hand, staying where they were was not an option either. More thunder cracked above them, now so close that goose flesh pebbled on Dean's arms.

After a few seconds of waiting, Dean had decided. He was not a fucking squirrel to sit in this tree, perched and paralyzed. Taking a few steps back, Dean wiped water from his face. His eyes hadn't left the stone, a dark pearl beckoning him with its allure. _Cas? Right about now would be a good time to show up._

Silence. 

He and Cas were going to engage in a lengthy talk as soon as he survived this shit. Taking hold of Jack's feet, he pressed down to the sides of his stomach and the boy – angels save him, no _Dean_ save him – dug his heels in. _Like a fucking prized pony._ A sudden laugh bubbled up Dean's throat and he killed it down with a cough. Now was not the time to lose his composure. He took another step back on the branch and extended his hand. The rain hammered against his palm but Dean was paying closer attention to the direction the wind was coming from. “You remember Jack, hold on as hard as you can now, alright?” 

“Yes, Dean. Really tight.” Jack leaned in closer, resting his head on Dean's shoulder.

Dean waited for the right moment when the wind had calmed somewhat and took a step back. Not wanting to scare Jack with further indecision, he decided to just take the plunge. Exhaling, he jumped off. 

His heart hammered with a frenzy in his chest as the dark waters rapidly approached them. He could barely see the rock jutting out in the water, obscured as it was by waves crashing against it. Trusting his memory more than his actual eyes, he bent his legs slightly, the heavy weight of Jack at his back a reassurance.

Dean grunted and clenched his teeth against the jolt that traveled up his spine as he landed on the rock. Immediately, a gale pushed at his back and Dean felt his feet slip on the wet surface. One foot landed in the frigid water but Dean quickly bent down and clutched his fingers at a small indentation on the rock. Easing up his foot out of the water, he stood there for a while, motionless as the winds wailed around them. Slowly he turned around again, his thighs burning as he rose back up on his feet. He could see the other rock ahead of him, then came the huge tree in the river and in the distance, a faint shadow was moving. He pushed Charlie out of his mind and wiped at his face again. 

At the corner of his eye, a bright arrow of light flashed, accompanied by loud thunder seconds after. Massive amounts of rain, river-flooding, and what seemed to be a great lightning storm brewing were not good signs. If Dean didn't know better he would've suspected angels were poking fingers in his pies but he knew from Cas' stories they did no such things. _Maybe Cas hasn't told you everything. Maybe you are cursed. Maybe that's why he isn't here._ Dean firmly shut down the emerging, unbidden thoughts. He had enough on his plate already. 

The second time the sound of thunder roared above them, he could feel Jack slowly try and ease off his back. Quickly, Dean's hand went behind his back and he grabbed hold of a thigh, his jaws clenched as he tried to maintain a precarious balance on the little slab of rock that separated them from the raging waters. What the fuck was the kid doing? He knew Jack had understood his course of action and what he had to do, so the sudden urge to escape bewildered him.“Stop fucking moving! You're gonna get us both killed, you knob head!” He pinned down Jack's thigh until he could feel the boy settle, then Dean adjusted his grip again. A flash of remorse went through him at calling the kid names, but Jack had probably just heard bits and pieces of his outburst anyway.

He could only take one step before he had to launch himself in the air, so Dean crouched down and waited patiently for the wind to hit just right. As the force of the wind at his back escalated, pushing him towards the dark waters, Dean prepared himself. He jumped and the wind was strong, nudging him along. Mid-air, Dean realized that he wasn't going to make it, not fully. He landed with his heels precariously on the edge of the rock, and in the distance, he could hear someone scream; he wasn't sure if it was Jack or Charlie. Immediately, he pushed off again, up and forward, aiming for the fallen tree.

Dean landed awkwardly, falling forward on the harsh trunk and his hands shot out to brace himself. A sharp pain pierced his knee as he landed but adrenaline was coursing through his veins, dulling the worst of it. A tug on his left, near his neck, was all the warning Dean got before Jack slid off next to him. “Damn it! Jack, stay close.” He reached out his hand to grab the child but Jack had his eyes set on the safety of land and started running. Dean caught nothing but air. “Jack!”

Looking ahead, Jack was a small, yellow shape, barely visible in the darkness brought on by the storm. 

Dean rose up just in time to see everything with his own eyes. Jack slipped on something; whether it was a small root, the wet trunk, or his own damn feet, was anyone’s guess; and tumbled down into the river. Every coherent thought in Dean's mind died down, and he jumped straight into the pitch-black water. 

His body had mere seconds to register the ice-cold water before a shattering pain exploded in Dean's side. The scream came out feral and instinctual. Dean swallowed water, arms and legs kicking wildly before remembering his surroundings. The pain was still there, raw and pulsating but he didn't have time to pause at the moment. Dean swam up towards the surface, gritting his teeth against the pain as he looked for Jack. The rain was beating mercilessly on the river surface when lightning struck nearby. 

Charlie was lit up, a familiar beacon of hope gesturing wildly near the middle of the partly submerged oak. She shouted something that got lost in the tempest. Dean's muscles were already protesting against the cold and the stream threatening to pull him under but he had to reach the spot Charlie was pointing at. He kicked his legs forcefully, his arms slicing through the water with each stroke. Adrenaline was rushing through his body. The dull ache in his side was unparalleled to the frantic beating of his heart. 

Near the side of the tree, he saw Jack, right below the surface of the water, his arms splayed out. His head briefly breached the surface before bobbing under again. _No, no,no._ As he swam up to Jack, the boy splashed with his legs futilely. His movements were slow. Listless. Dean wrapped an arm around Jack, hoisting him up to the surface. The rain pelted at his face as Jack came to life in a panic. He clawed at Dean, his hands digging at the side of his face. Dean closed his mouth and trod water as Jack tried to climb on him to get away, threatening to pull Dean underwater. A stray heel pushed its way into Dean's side and he screamed in agony, almost dropping Jack back into the river. 

Dean tightened his hold around Jack's waist as he exhaled, willing the pain away. Slowly, he began swimming closer to the oak tree but Jack was still squirming. “Calm down, Jack, we're close!” Dean took comfort in the way Jack relaxed against him. Now he didn't have to fight on two sides, instead, he could focus all his attention on getting them to the shore.

He reached out one hand towards the fallen tree trunk but growled in frustration when his hand kept slipping. The ridges in the oak were too shallow and slick from the rain. He could feel hard, round bumps here and there on the trunk from broken twigs and branches that the river had swept away in the past. Dean grabbed one bump with his hand, desperately trying to hold on with cramped fingers but the raging waves, edged on by the wind pushed him back with relentless force.

“Dean! Here, I– “ The wind made Charlie's voice seem distant, and what came to him was interrupted and hard to decipher. 

His legs were on fire from constantly treading water but at the same time, he could feel numbness envelop him. He'd been in the river for quite some time, even before finding Jack and he was not sure how long he'd be able to keep this up. Devastatingly blue eyes came to his mind, dark wings glowing unearthly in the early morning light – _Cas!_A spark of anger flared in his heart. He was not going to be trapped in the river like a bobbing salmon; besides, salmons jumped during spawning season and Dean Winchester was better than a cursed; scaled, fish!

Suddenly, Charlie was right there on the tree trunk. As she knelt down, her body obscured her actions, but Dean took comfort in that she had a plan. At least, he _hoped_she had a plan. She rose and tossed something in the water and Dean realized it was the fishing net she'd carried with her. With a grunt, Dean moved his legs until he felt his fingers brush against the net. Heart pounding in his chest, due to tiredness or elation, Dean didn't have time to ponder on. Grabbing Jack, he shoved him towards the net but Jack held on to Dean's tunic, refusing to abandon the only source of safety he felt was his at that moment. Wrapping a strong hand around Jack's wrist, Dean pulled him away and placed his hand on the net. Immediately, Jack let go of Dean, clutching the net as Charlie starting pulling.

Inch by inch, Jack was dragged to safety. Charlie grabbed his tunic and hauled him up the rest of the way until he was out of the river. Dean exhaled, satisfied at the view before him. Now he could let go and just rest. The thought beckoned him, like a comforting lover cajoling him to let go of hardships and sink deeper into the realms of pleasure and oblivion. He usually found oblivion in ale and Cas but to just drift away and let his tired muscles relax was as good an option as any. 

A splash breaking off the monotony of raindrops still pelting the river startled Dean out of his drifting thoughts. Dean blinked, trying to make sense of what he saw. His fingers swirled in the cold water until he felt the tied ropes, forming tiny squares. He grabbed hold of the net, holding on as tightly as he could as he was slowly being dragged away from the river. A sudden yank tugged at him and he slipped back into the water. Confused, he tried to swim forward but again felt a jerk as something was holding him back. Shoving his hands into the water, Dean found the source of that tug. The black purse dangling on his belt was stuck on something, probably a submerged branch as he was close to the fallen oak.

“Come on, hurry up!” Charlie was pulling in the net, only to toss it back out again but little would that help if Dean couldn't reach the cursed thing. 

His hands were beginning to feel stiff from being submerged underwater for so long. Fuck, his whole body was cold and tired and the adrenaline had started to diminish, leaving him weak and weary. Feeling blindly for the knot, Dean stopped when he felt the familiar shape of the black purse. It was firmly attached to the wet rope and with Dean feeling like a cat being drowned twice over and his fingers numb, he didn't have the strength to untangle the knot. He tried to take a swim stroke but felt the tug again, now around his midsection. It hit him suddenly, and if the situation wasn't so dire, Dean would have laughed out loud. Letting go of the knot, Dean focused all his attention on the belt buckle but it was a precarious task to do with his cold hands. When he finally flicked open the prong, the belt became loser. The stream was already pulling it off him. Dean waited until the belt was around his knees, then he started kicking his legs to ease it off him. The belt came undone and Dean's hand swirled around the water, searching for the black purse. 

For a brief second he contemplated letting go of the net; that way he would reach his purse, but then the absurdity of his desire hit him. Clear fucking eyes, what was he thinking? Reaching forward again, he grabbed the net and Charlie started pulling him up. With half his body out of the water, Dean could finally reach a branch and hoisted himself up the rest of the way. Rolling over with a groan as pain stabbed him in the side again, he lay there for a few seconds – enjoying the sturdy feeling of land, trees, anything that was solid and not soaked, under his back – before getting up. The rain hitting his face, he ignored for now. 

⸙  


They took shelter under a tree and waited out the thunderstorm until it passed. The rain still fell from the sky but big fat raindrops had transformed into small, misty showers. They had gone so far inland that they escaped the soft ground near the overflowing river and although the grass was wet, it wasn't a march or littered with mud. Dean opened the leather sack and dug around until he found a carrot. Grabbing a sharp rock, he peeled of the worst of the skin before handing it to Jack. “Here, have another one.”

Jack frowned but still took the small carrot. “I guess you don't have anything else.”

“I have carrot and carrot. If you feel adventurous I have this.” The pain in his side flared up as he pulled out some potatoes and Dean looked down, hiding his grimace.

Jack made a face but a smile shortly replaced his frown, tugging at his lips. “That will make me sick. No, thank you.” He took the carrot, biting off a chunk and chewed happily.

Dean nodded, pleased that Jack was eating something. He contemplated having one too, but just the thought of food made him nauseous. Besides, Jack had been through much and needed the small amount of energy the vegetable provided. 

Charlie leaned in close to Dean and whispered in his ear.“How are you feeling?” 

It reminded him of when they were kids, whispering nonsense in each other's ears but also secrets like when Metatron baked his blueberry tarts and how many they would steal or their desire to see places outside of the village, or where the best trees were for climbing. “Tired as fuck, but good. We saved him. We saved Sa– Jack.” 

Dean's smile faltered but Charlie grabbed his hand, squeezing it in reassurance. “Sam would have been proud of us, proud of _you_, Dean. You're a good big brother.”

After one hour, it was hard to tell, the rain and thunder finally subsided and they made their way towards the village, towards _home_. Despite the storm and all the rain Dean had experienced – more than he'd wanted to during a lifetime – he did appreciate the beauty of it, well, the aftermath of the storm. Leaves of red, green, and yellow glistening, bubbles of water on thin reeds shining in the sun like fragile pearls and a crisp freshness that lay over everything, promising something new and reborn, and most of all, a reminder that they were all alive.

Charlie and Jack were ahead of him, holding hands. The closer to home they came, the more energized Jack became. He was not running around, still seeking the closeness of human company but where his voice had been shy and timid before, now he spoke with animation, almost shouting at times. With the storm gone, the clouds and sun greeted them again, and slowly the humidity rose. Their wet clothes had dried and soon any trace of their escapade in the river had been erased, save for the stains of dirt on their faces.

Dean groaned as another wave of pain hit him. Describing it as a wave was an act of kindness; at this point, it was more a constant ache and each step he took was like a knife to his gut. Thinking of his stomach made nausea roll through him. In the beginning, it had been a small matter and the pain had been something he could ascribe to being without food for an extended period of time, but now it was ever-present. Dean swallowed harshly and went to grab his purse when he remembered that it was at the bottom of the river somewhere. A chill went through him and he shuddered as goosebumps erupted all over his body. _Cas, hey, you there? Jack is saved and I'm bringing back some fine-looking carrots I can beat Naomi with. I have some bumps and bruises but I'll be fine. _

Silence. 

_Hope everything is fine. I miss you._

Silence.

_Your feathers make you look like an overgrown turkey._

Silence.

Dean gasped as another, sharper pain stabbed him in the gut and he swallowed hard, clamping his mouth shut as not to let any screams escape. Looking up, he saw that Charlie and Jack were still ahead of him. Soon, the familiar bend in the river would arrive and with it Charlie's house and then the rest of the village. Reuniting Jack with his parents, that was a good thing, as was the proof of his words that the lands were not cursed. And if the villagers would not eat his bounty, Dean would. Tomorrow.

Adjusting the small leather sack with vegetables, Dean walked on, even though what he really wanted was to sit down and rest, just for a few minutes. His skin felt clammy and yet again Dean pulled at his green tunic, not that it made much difference. Glancing up at the sky, he saw only the faintest of traces of a storm having even been present. Clouds that were fatter than usual, some a light shade of gray but the sun was a fire as it burned brightly, scorching his skin.

His side was an inferno of pain and even though Dean's feet on the grass were slow and unhurried, each step magnified the relentless feeling of agony. Another cold shiver went through him and Dean felt irritation building. If his body could decide if it was hot or cold it would make it much easier for Dean to complain about it. But sadly he wasn't bestowed such fortune. _Cas, I'm on my way home. Can't wait to see you again. Told you I'd save Jack. You owe me. _Dean grinned feebly at his own excellence.

A heavy feeling rose up from deep inside, pressing upwards and Dean's thoughts of his own accomplishments were cut short. The river was on his left side, but he wanted more privacy than that. Tall grass brushed his thighs and here and there small bushes dotted the ground but Dean was looking for something more sturdier. Trees clustered the right side of the path, but Dean dismissed the thin birches growing tall and headed instead towards a large oak with a thick trunk. He liked oaks, almost felt an odd sense of fondness for them after having saved Jack.

“Cha –“ Her name came out as a croak. Dean coughed and grimaced as pain rattled his body. Inhaling deeply, he tried again. “Charlie!” When he had her attention he motioned at his crotch, then pointed at the trees. Certain that he'd got his message across, he didn't bother to see if they waited for him.

Finally at the oak tree, he nodded absentmindedly in satisfaction at the width of the trunk. This would hide him. Dean fell down on his knees, gasping as pain flared through him again. It was apparently too much to ask for one pain at a time, why not just drown in it? At least he wasn't drowning in water. Dean laughed. With his hands against the raspy wood he emptied his stomach.


	10. Illumination

Dean imagined that he swayed back and forth, like a reed caught in the summer wind as faces floated past him; Jack's parents overjoyed with the return of their son, Metatron trying to give off an air of suspicion about the whole ordeal but the smile he had when looking at Jack revealing his true feelings, and Claire, who was the first to spot them as they came back from the Edge. Dean knew that words traveled fast and already he was overwhelmed by the crowd.

“ – ank you. Clear eyes, Dean –“ Jack's mother fired off a smile towards him before turning her attention back to her son.

The words traveled to him in waves, much like the pulse of pain washing over him with every heartbeat. His tunic felt saturated with sweat but his chills refused to go down. Looking up at the sky, the sun was beating down hard but his body refused to acknowledge the fact.

Raising an arm to fend off more people, he walked past Claire. Each step toward his home was a welcome reprieve from the commotion near the riverbank, even though he'd be satisfied to just slump down among the summer grass and flowers and close his eyes.

An arm hooked around his own as Charlie came to his side. “Dean, is everything fine? You seemed a bit distracted.”

“I'm fine, Charlie. Everything's good. Just gonna go home, lay down and rest for a while. It takes a toll fishing up kids from the river.” He fired off what he hoped was a reassuring smile before looking away to hide a grimace of pain. He focused on breathing calmly, trying to expel air with slow breaths but they came out fast and shallow anyway, despite his best intentions. 

They walked close together for a few steps before Charlie yanked up the sleeve of his tunic, a hand clasping at his wrist. “Dean Winchester! You're burning up. Why didn't you tell me you're having a fever, you big oaf?”

Dean shrugged. “It's nothing. Probably because of my swim in the river. “ He paused and looked out over the fields of grass that he'd called home since childhood. It struck him how beautiful it was and with that thought came a surge of gratitude for everything that his parents had done for him, despite all that had transpired between them.“You know, cold water and then the sun on the way back. A nap and I'll be fine. Mom and dad though, they'll probably pass out.” Dean felt winded and decided that he really needed to stop talking and seek the comfort of sleep.

Charlie looked at him as if to assess the truth of his words.

“Charlie, stop with that look.”

Charlie pursed her lips, shaking her head in exasperation.“Fine. You're fine, I'm fine... Jack is fine.” She smiled softly at the last words. “You did the right thing you know, Dean. You saved him. They will thank you after they've stewed in their own shame for awhile. And hopefully, come around. When they see the bounty we've brought back they'll have no choice but to believe.”

“We always have choices, Charlie,” Dean paused as if catching his breath before continuing, “and sometimes people pick the crappy ones. But I hope they won't ignore what's right in front of them.” He took off his leather sack and handed it to her. “Keep this safe until Naomi calls.”

“Naomi? Why would you think she'd have an interest in – “

“Trust me. If she gets her hands on _this_ – proof of the nonexistent curse – clear my eyes all the fuck you want, those potatoes and carrots will disappear faster than Michael when he heard his parents wanted to marry him off to Becky.”

Charlie grinned at the memory. “Right. Wouldn't surprise me if we got a call to prayer _tomorrow_.” She opened the sack and took out a potato and carrot. “For you, if your parents demand more evidence.”

Taking the produce, Dean nodded in gratitude and took Charlie's hand. “I know I was... harsh with my words when you first saw me. I'm... sorry. I couldn't have done it without you.” He took hold of Charlie, embracing her in a hug as he kissed her fire-touched head. “Thank you for coming with me.”

“Anytime, Dean. That's what friends are for.” 

“Thanks for saving me.”

Charlie's face was solemn despite her light words. “You saved me once, remember? Mud pit, dimwitted children?”

“Dimwitted child?”

Charlie grinned. “You sure were.”

Hugging Charlie one more time, Dean waved as she slowly took the path back towards her house, then he turned around. Closing his eyes, he tried to inhale deeply but that only caused him to be more acutely aware of the pain throughout his body. Dean's limbs felt slow and sluggish as he walked the trampled path to his house. This was a rare fever to leave him so listless.

“Mom, Dad?” Dean's voice sounded frail even to his own ears as he walked inside. Putting down the carrot and potato on the kitchen counter, Dean opened a cupboard and took out a wooden cup before going to the corner to grab a pitcher full of water. He poured the water slowly, his arm trembling as warmth flooded his body. Dean frowned. Sure, the pitcher was full but this was an insult. Dean was not this feeble; he refused it. The water was lukewarm which meant that his mother had probably been to the river that morning, but it had a subtle refreshing taste of mint that Dean enjoyed.

Putting the cup down, Dean was almost to his room when the back door opened and his mother walked in.

“Dean!” His name was a surprised whisper on her lips before she came to his side, hugging him tightly. “Sweet boy, where have you been?” She looked him up and down, and Dean knew that worrying look on her face. It was a window into a past they both wanted to forget and move on from. Dean felt a stab of guilt in his heart for evoking those feelings in his mother again.

He kissed her cheek gently. “Been beyond the Edge. Jack is home, mom. We saved him.”

Mary's face lit up. “Clean life, Lucien and Kelly will be beside themselves with happiness. Is he –“

Dean grimaced at his mother's insinuation. “He's fine, mom. Not cursed, only tired and grateful to be home in a warm bed. Speaking of bed.” He rubbed a comforting hand on her arm. “It's been a... wild ride and there was a storm and this stench on me is worse than pig's shit.”

Mary arched her eyebrow in disapproval. 

“Sorry, pig crap. Better?”

Mary smiled, then turned serious. There was sincerity in her voice as she spoke. “I'm proud of you. And of what you did, Dean.” She was silent as if wrestling with a course of action that just then settled into a solid decision. “Next time we are at prayer, I will... speak up.”

Dean nodded slowly and asked the first question that was on his mind even though he dreaded the answer “And dad?” 

“John will too. He'll be back in a while.”

Dean let out a long sigh as his mother continued. 

“He's out helping Tran near the King's road. They figured that Jack might have ventured the other way but I'm sure news will travel fast that' he's been found safe and well. They searched in secret.” Mary made a face at the confession and cleared her throat as she turned her back on Dean. Opening up a small wooden chest that contained herbs, she grabbed some dried leaves. “I'll make you some chamomile tea, then you can sleep. I feel a fever coming on you.”

Dean knew better than to object. “Thanks, mom.”

⸙

Dean was not sure how much time had passed and he didn't particularly care. There was a pounding in his head distracting such trivial thoughts. He listened for the creaking of floorboards or pots and pans being disturbed but all he heard was his own rapid breathing and the soft sigh of the wind as it pressed against the house walls. It was a familiar sound, one that Dean had heard since he was a child but today it made him uneasy. The sigh was not comforting but eerie and reminded Dean of a spirit seeking retribution.

_Cas?_

Silence. 

For how long had Cas evaded him? It was hard to remember, events blurred into a seamless line making it difficult for Dean to distinguish each component. They had saved Jack the day before or was it today? Where had Charlie gone? He was certain she'd been with him. 

The bed was soft but brought Dean no comfort. Taking a gulp of the now cold tea, Dean grimaced as it went down. The brew did not much to soothe his throat, and the smooth liquid was anything but as it traveled down and settled in his belly. Not that he needed something warm. From the toes of his feet to the crown of his head, Dean was being baptized in fire. Even the clean tunic he'd slipped on was soaked. Chills wrecked his body, but he was more concerned about the persisting ache pulsating on the side of his abdomen. It was an unwelcome companion to the pain in his head but if he was being honest his whole body was in various states of anguish. 

Dean rose up in bed with effort and leaned back against the simple headboard. Pulling up his tunic, he looked at his stomach and noticed red pinpricks clustering near his side. They seemed to be expanding and contracting like a living entity. Dean blinked and leaned in closer, only to realize that they were very much still. He had freckles on his face, arms and legs. Surely, he had freckles on his stomach too. Pressing his fingers gently on the sore spot with the red pinpricks, Dean stifled a cry as a spasm of pain overtook him. Clearly, they were _not_ freckles. His fingers clenched around the sheets and Dean bit down on his pillow with force, not wanting to alarm his mother if she was around.

An eternity later, when he hoped the worst of the fire had stopped lashing his skin, Dean let go of the pillow but the evidence of his ordeal was very much still present, quietly simmering underneath. He opened his eyes slowly, groaning as he tried to suppress another oncoming wave of pain but it was a futile endeavor. Whereas his world had been fire before, now Dean was being submerged in ice. The cold reminded him too much of the frigid river and how close they had been to losing Jack. Gooseflesh covered every inch of his body, and his frame started to shake, from pain or the cold, Dean was not sure. He took shallow, labored breaths as his teeth chattered, doing his best to avoid moving his side, or moving at all. 

Another violent shiver went through him, this one shooting up from the base of his spine, traveling with lightning speed until it exploded in his head. Shutting his eyes against the cold, even though he must have been doused in fire because it was not possible for coldness to feel like a thousand suns on his skin, Dean did his best to just breathe. 

As he opened his eyes the _sun_ was in front of him.

Castiel was glowing. His dark wings were behind him, spread out like a shield and although no sunlight touched his form, an ethereal light surrounded him. The cobalt of his eyes was a beacon calling him home and a heaviness Dean didn't realize he'd carried within him since Cas' disappearance was immediately lifted at the sight of the angel. Cas was home. He was _Dean's_ home. 

_Cas. I'm glad you're here. You've missed a lot._

A twitch of a smile shadowed Castiel's lips before he became serious again. His voice was low and solemn as he spoke, yet tinged with an odd note of sadness. “You lost something.” Slowly, he raised a hand. Dean tried to decipher what it was Cas was holding up, but his eyes refused to focus on the object. Every time he paid attention to it, it rippled and Dean's gaze slid elsewhere, hiding from a truth that pounded at his heart, demanding that he acknowledge its existence.

Another shiver coursed through Dean, accompanied by muscles locking in agonizing contractions. Dean let out another groan of pain through clenched teeth. _Don't worry. Just some fever, Cas. Give me a second._

Cas immediately took a step forward, his black wings now tightly behind his back in apprehension, something that Dean had rarely, if ever, seen. “Just breathe, Dean, you'll feel... better soon.”

A sarcastic quip was on Dean's tongue at Castiel's words of confidence but something grabbed his attention. Behind the glow that enveloped the angel was a shadow and it wasn't eradicated as Castiel took another step towards Dean. The shadow hung over Castiel, embracing him and made the glowing light and the blue of his eyes stand out even more. 

“Cas, what is going – ?” Dean stopped mid-sentence as Castiel finally walked up to Dean, and sat down at the edge of the bed. The throbbing pain emanating from his side that had kept him in a state of sweat, agony, and confusion for what seemed like hours was slowly subsiding until he almost felt like himself again. His breathing was back to normal, and although he felt sweaty and utterly drained, the pain was a faint echo of what it had been before. 

Castiel took Dean's hand, kissing the back of it and Dean felt his heart speed up. Luckily, it was born out of desire, love and maybe just a sliver of anger, rather than whatever had made him feel like a wrung-out rag. 

“How do you feel?”

“How do I feel? Well, better now, _much_ better but not so peachy moments ago. Come here.” Dean grabbed Cas and pulled him into a hug, not caring that Castiel's weird light enveloped him. All he knew was that Cas was there with him and it was all that mattered. Blue shimmered in his wings thanks to the odd glow; it was as if Cas was carrying the sun itself within him. “Need to start calling you sunshine I think,” Dean joked as they slowly let go of each other.

Castiel nodded. “You are the only one I know that would ascribe the angel of Death anything even remotely related to the sun. Well, you and the worshipers of the sun. Mostly, people see me as a harbinger of pain, loss, and darkness.”

“Well, you bring more than that. And they don't _know_ you as I do.” Dean wiggled an eyebrow that made Castiel shake his head. “I haven't felt this good since,” Dean paused briefly, “since before taking that dive. We saved Jack, Cas! I feel like I can sleep for at least a century now though. Task accomplished. And Charlie is showing off our findings tomorrow, so hopefully, we can start to gather more crops from beyond the Edge. Anael needs more herbs and Metatron wants his stupid berries.” Dean smiled again. “We found a way.” 

“I'm glad you found Jack, Dean. Your tenacity and will to fight for what was good and right was only matched by the content of your heart.”

Realization struck Dean. “Wait a second. You were there? You saw everything and didn't show yourself?” Hurt flickered over Dean's features.

Castiel looked uncomfortable and he pulled his dark wings back although his hand found Dean's as his thumb started rubbing his freckled skin. Dean was not sure if he was trying to soothe Dean or himself but the look on Castiel's face raised the hairs on the back of his neck in warning. Cas had never looked uneasy.

“I didn't show myself, not because I didn't want to, but because I _couldn't_. Some laws even I have to obey.”

“What laws, what are you talking about? You've never had any problems with appearing before.”

Instead of answering, Castiel let go of Dean's hand and turned his own hand around with the palm up. From nothing, a black purse materialized, heavy with coins that had been Dean's to carry since he'd been a child.

Dean sat in stunned silence until finally finding his voice. “You found my purse.”

Castiel's voice was even. “Yes.”

Dean's eyes narrowed in suspicion. He glanced at the black purse, then at Cas again. He took in the odd glow that surrounded him, and beautiful as it was, it wasn't a part of Cas. Not for Dean who had known him since he'd been a child. Cas' inner light was enough and he didn't need any outer embellishments.  
Dean loved his angel exactly for who he was, no more and no less. 

Castiel's glow suddenly vanished and the strange shadows with it. 

Inhaling, Dean looked at Cas, his jaw set. A deep exhale didn't make any difference in putting him at ease. “I'm not getting back that purse, am I?”

“No, Dean.” Castiel's voice was soft.

There was no anger in Dean's voice, just a statement that he uttered with sudden clarity.“I'm – I'm dying.”

“Yes.” Cas nodded and the black purse disappeared to whatever realm it now belonged to. 

“I guess that hit to the side was not so small after all.” Dean sighed. “Don't get me wrong, I would do it all again in a heartbeat, Cas. We saved Jack, me and Charlie, hopefully, saved the village too. We did save it, right?”

Castiel didn't answer right away, weighing his words instead to give Dean the fullest answer he could. “You have done your part; the fate of the rest of the villagers is in their own hands now. But you did give them hope, Dean. And a possible solution.”

Dean's next words came out as a whisper.“What about... us? Is that part done too?” Remembering that he felt much more invigorated and didn't have the need to rest anymore, Dean was about to get out of bed, not wanting Cas to confirm his worst fears when Cas' heavy hand was on his chest pushing him back down.

“You and I have a profound bond, Dean.” Castiel trailed his hand down Dean's abdomen, leaving a trail of fire in his wake. “We'll be good, in time.” His voice was confident.

“_In time?_ What's that supposed to mean? You said I was dying. Seems there isn't much time left.”

“You're not the only one that will cross over soon.” Castiel peered carefully at Dean as if gauging his reaction to this revelation, his hand still stroking Dean. “Being the angel of Death grants me access to more supreme knowledge, within reasonable limits of course. I've read my own book and know my time has come. I've been dying for a long time, Dean. This is the end of this story for now, but there are countless other stories waiting to be read out to the universe.”

Dean slapped away Castiel's hand. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

The wind outside had stopped beating on the house, and Dean realized that the telltale groaning of old planks and walls snapping had ceased for some time. Turning his head to the side, he couldn't catch the sound of his mom chopping herbs, opening cupboards or any other mundane sounds that were signs of a house filled with life. They were probably caught in a temporal space void again. Dean swallowed harshly.

Castiel's voice came to him, distant and detached. “Haven't I told you that everybody dies?”

“Yes. Yes! But that was about _me!_ My chicken! Fuck, I know Eldon deserves it more than most, what about him?” Dean rose up from the bed. He allowed anger to lace his voice in a futile attempt to calm his fears. It didn't do much to temper the harsh drumming of his heart as he faced Castiel. He pointed at him as he unleashed all his anger and hurt.“Grass dies, beetles I don't know... get fucking stomped on, birds drop from the sky. _You_ are not _everybody_, Cas! You're a fucking angel of Death! You're not supposed to die.” 

Castiel still spoke softly, despite Dean's anger being aimed at him.“Says who?”

“Me.” Dean lowered his arm as he looked at Cas, his hazel-green eyes steely. “You're _mine_. ” It came out with a stubborn determination as if denying the truth of the situation would undo Castiel's words. And Dean _knew_ it was the truth; he could feel the heaviness of Cas' words as they settled inside him, marking him with this terrible knowledge. 

Castiel sighed, but it was a sound filled with empathy and understanding, not a dismissal. “I did not make that distinction. And your knowledge about my death, it would've tarnished your experience of us and what we have up until this point. I know humans, Dean.” Castiel smiled and kissed him on the cheek.”You would be here with me, caressing my wings, showing me the world you love so much, fucking me senseless, but your mind would be elsewhere, always searching for a way to 'save' me.”

“You big... walnut!” Dean sank down to the ground, crossing his legs. 

Castiel sat down next to him, lacing his fingers together with Dean's. “I must say walnut is a disappointment. You can do better.” 

Dean let out a bitter laugh and blinked away the burn in his eyes.“I want more time, I want you.”

“Don't we all want more time with me?” Castiel smiled. “I felt that profound bond, something pulling gently at the core of my being when I saw you in the woods all those years ago, and your soul, Dean... It outshined any previous soul I've seen in my existence and I doubt I'll see the likes of it again.”

A smile quirked at Dean's lips at the memory. “Must have been something really special seeing such a handsome, amazing human being too.“ He made a vague gesture at his abdomen. “And I know you'll not see the likes of this again, Cas. Dying here, remember.”

Castiel eased his hand from Dean's grip as he turned slightly to face him. His wings swept over Dean, enveloping him into a space where hidden secrets could be spoken freely just between the two of them. “I know you're dying, Dean. But we _will_ meet again, in a different incarnation, a different time, in a different universe, my sweet Dean. That much I know.” 

He touched Dean's shoulder and Dean was back in bed. He waited for the onslaught of dizziness that usually accompanied such travels and raised an eyebrow when the sickness failed to appear. “My world is not swirling, what happened?”

“The distance is too short to cause any noticeable effect.” Cas' blue eyes swept over the bed. “And you have a soft bed. Better than a hard floor.”

Dean chuckled darkly. “Tell me about it. Beats drowning in a river.”

They were silent for a while, nothing disturbing them. It was as if the universe itself was holding its breath for what was to come. 

“So, you're saying this is not the end for us?” The words were uncertain as he looked at Castiel, seeking a sign of confirmation and not daring to cling on to hope. Castiel took his hand and held on to it. Dean was grateful as it grounded Dean to reality as he tried to make sense of everything.

“It's not. I'll be an angel, albeit of a different kind. And I know that you'll be there. That part is set in stone. Our profound bond will last, even though its form may shift somewhat. I'll be there before you, waiting.” He stroked Dean's cheek, whispering, “I'll always wait for you.”

Dean leaned into the touch. “You'll be there before me. Does that mean you're going to be older than me? Again?” It was a trivial question to ask but Dean's mind was reeling from this revelation. The knowledge of his imminent death and supposed rebirth was enough to shake up any human, even one that loved an angel.

“Being born before you does mean I'll be older, yes.” Castiel trailed his finger down the side of Dean's face, following a path of subtle freckles. “On this plane, that is how time usually works.”

Castiel's touch was welcome, soothing almost and Dean closed his eyes. His body had had enough of pain and hardships, now yearning for soft, careful sensations.“Very funny, Cas. You have a strange attachment to being older than me.”

Sitting down on the bed, next to Dean, Castiel chuckled. “With age comes wisdom.” 

Dean shook his head as Cas' tone. “Well, with age also comes things such as loss of teeth, general confusion, and knee pain. Jokes are on you.”

“I'll still be an angel. Those ailments won't touch me.”

“Right.” Dean chewed on his lip as he looked into Cas' eyes. A surge of love erupted through him for the angel he called his, but it was quickly washed away as one burning question demanded satisfaction. He needed to know. “Will... Will Sam be there? I didn't really get to know him and –“

“Sam is waiting for you.”

Dean's smile was small and hesitant before it bloomed into a huge smile. “That's good to hear. I'll do him proud next time.”

“You never failed in that endeavor, Dean.”

A myriad of protests rushed through Dean's head but was cut off abruptly when agony flared up in his body again. Once again, it was not concentrated to his abdomen but covered every inch of his flesh. His breathing became labored as sweat seeped out of his pores. “Cas, what's happen –?” Dean gritted his teeth against a spasm that seized him tight, refusing to let go.

_It's time._

The meaning escaped Dean, as he clutched the sheets, trying to ride out a pain that was never-ending. Two glowing orbs hovered over Dean and soon his vision was overwhelmed with blue light. The small hairs on his arms rose up as he trembled incessantly. Distantly, he was aware of the bed frame shaking, his heart thumping in his chest. 

Everything stilled. 

Dean's harsh breathing was an echo in his own ears, urging him to calm as the light in Castiel's eyes faded. Cas' hand softly cupped his cheek, grounding him and with that still intense gaze on him, his hand drifted down. He brushed a thumb gently on Dean's lower lip, and Dean mourned the sudden loss of that caress when Cas leaned in close instead.

The kiss was chaste; a careful union of lips.

Nothing hurt. 

Fire rushed through Dean and he surged forward, claiming Cas' mouth with a fervor that surprised even him. At last! His hands wound their way in Cas' hair, pulling the angel even closer. Cas' careful kiss melted away, leaving fierce determination in its wake. If this was what dying felt like, Dean would willingly succumb to death again and again. Their union was everything, coaxing out a pleased sigh from Dean as he tasted the essence of Cas. A lingering taste of rain on a warm summer day, the metallic remnants from a thunderstorm, the sweetness of honey. Kissing Cas had overwhelmed his senses and if ever someone claimed Dean had been mad, now, at this moment, he could finally think clearly. It was as if blindness had been lifted from his eyes, only to reveal Dean's purpose with stark clarity. 

The kiss was everything and more. Dean panted inside Cas' mouth, yearning for more, but all too soon, Castiel broke it off. “Cas.” The whispered word was a prayer on his lips. Dean breathed hard, awestruck by the power in the kiss.

A pressing feeling settled over Dean suddenly, pushing him down onto the bed, and the last thing he saw before closing his eyes was Castiel.

“How will I know it's you, Cas, how will I remember that it's _you_?” Dean mumbled on the precipice, ready to submit to sleep. The world was covered in darkness.

Cas smiled and as Dean slowly took his last breath, he whispered in Dean's ear. “Sparks will literally fly as we lay eyes on each other again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this was my very first Bang! Thank you for coming along on this journey with me! I hope you enjoyed. Kudos are most welcome! If you want to leave a comment or have questions, go ahead! If you want to gush, leave a constructive criticism or just squee, write away. This fic was made with love, determination and some swearing and I welcome any reactions you have.
> 
> And lastly, once again, thank you to my two betas, Emblue_Sparks and BabysNotAProp! <3
> 
> Mary Oliver's poem "Death comes twice", a lovely poem, inspired this fic. I'll post it below:
> 
> When death comes  
like the hungry bear in autumn;  
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse
> 
> to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;  
when death comes  
like the measle-pox
> 
> when death comes  
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,
> 
> I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:  
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?
> 
> And therefore I look upon everything  
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,  
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,  
and I consider eternity as another possibility,
> 
> and I think of each life as a flower, as common  
as a field daisy, and as singular,
> 
> and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,  
tending, as all music does, toward silence,
> 
> and each body a lion of courage, and something  
precious to the earth.
> 
> When it's over, I want to say all my life  
I was a bride married to amazement.  
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.
> 
> When it's over, I don't want to wonder  
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
> 
> I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,  
or full of argument.
> 
> I don't want to end up simply having visited this world


End file.
